


The Molly Diaries II

by Penelope1730



Series: The Molly Diaries [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlock Holmes Molly Hooper relationship, Sherlolly - Freeform, mollock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2018-11-09 23:10:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 43,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11114853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penelope1730/pseuds/Penelope1730
Summary: Molly continues to journal as she and Sherlock begin their relationship. post-series 4, The Final Problem





	1. December

05 December 2015

 

It’s been a whirlwind since September. We’re coming on Christmas and so much has taken place since I’ve last written. And, here you are, a new journal for the coming year. I bet you never suspected, as you sat in the bookstore with your papyrus brethren, all new and beautifully pristine - smelling of fresh ink and fiber - that one day your pages would be the recipient of my endless writings, drawings and, on occasion, become a fill-in therapist. We're here to satisfy each other's intentions, I suppose, therefore I write and you receive. Seems like the most perfect and delightful exchange.

Sherlock and I…we’re doing well. Truthfully, not much has changed although everything’s changed. We have a nice rhythm, well, considering our relationship isn’t exactly typical. Oh, we’ve had a few dinner dates that always begin with Sherlock saying something like _“You might want to change your shoes.”_ Meaning, ditch the heels because this isn’t what you think it is. ‘Dinner’ is the avenue for something else far more interesting than eating a beginner course of salad, moving on to pasta, ending with something sweet – or with wine in between. Dinner is the foray into the curious that might end up with _‘I got you a bag of crisps at the petrol station.’_

Gifts – now this one is never predictable or dull. Although sometimes a bit questionable and even risky. Oh, Sherlock – be still your unromantic heart. First gift was a chair. Nice, practical, fits me perfectly so my “little legs and feet can touch the floor.” At the same time, this token is a doorway into his heart and sentiment. It might seem rather mundane to anyone else, but from Sherlock it’s the skeleton key into a safely guarded life where few are privy to enter. I remain truly touched.

The second gift was wrapped in a jewelry box – covered with lovely indigo blue paper, with a simple wide band ribbon of the most pale pink. You can just imagine, dear diary, my surprise and excitement! Mrs. Hudson was there when he sprung it on me, which seemed a bit bold. Neither one of us are big on flaunting our new found relationship in front of others and to be honest, I prefer to leave everyone questioning as we figure it out. But, the moment got the best of me and left me a bit choked with tears. I opened the box carefully, wanting to savor each second with the beautiful paper…even though Sherlock was a bit impatient. Mrs. Hudson waited with anticipation, smiling ear-to-ear, eager to see _“what goes on in that funny little brain of his”_ got me. The moment arrived when I lifted the lid, pulled back the perfectly folded tissue and saw a brand new pair of handcuffs.

Definitely not what I expected. They weren’t even studded.

Mrs. Hudson had a few things to say.

 

 _"Sherlock Holmes! Shame on you. That’s a rather private gift, don’t you think_?"

 

Oblivious to all the unspoken innuendos, Sherlock just beamed with pride. And me…well, I had no idea if he was not-so-subtly telling me about his secret kink and that he digs Fifty Shades of Gray – or Molly, in this case. Or, just joking. Except Sherlock never jokes. Not like this.

 

_“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, isn’t it brilliant? I'm going to teach Doctor Hooper all about handcuffs.”_

 

_“I don’t think so, dear.”_

I just stood there, mind spinning and on the verge of speechlessness.

 

_“Sherlock…I…uh…I…I don’t know what to say. Thank you…?”_

_“Molly! What would you do if you found yourself handcuffed and in need of escaping?”_

_“Scream?”_

_“A rather predictable and not very helpful reaction.”_

_“I bet you’re going to teach me.”_

_“Exactly.”_

Mrs. Hudson shot me a look that spoke volumes and whispered before going back downstairs -

 

_"You could turn it into a bit of romantic fun. I’ve borrowed his other ones a few times."_

 

Oh my god, what have I gotten myself into – was the only thought that came to mind. For the next two hours – yes, diary, I said Two. Flipping. Hours, Sherlock taught me the intricacies of picking locks – which I'm far from mastering, but have been given “homework” which will no doubt come with a surprise quiz one day. Of course, I had to move through the awful feeling of being bound with no escape, wanting to cry, getting angry and tired – and Sherlock heedless to it all. Finally, Mrs. Hudson’s wisdom hit me like a brick over the head – time to switch the power play and turn this into a game.

Sherlock was timing me to pick the lock, but instead of disappointing his stop watch once again, I told him in my most sultry voice, as I stepped in close…

 

_“I’ve been very naughty, Mr. Holmes…”_

 

I began unbuttoning my blouse, breathlessly whispering and nibbling his neck…

 

_“It’s awfully hot in here.”_

_“Molly, I'm trying to teach you a very important skill.”_

_“I always did like being the teacher’s pet.”_

My hands trailed down his shirt, tugging it out from his pants, snaking underneath to caress his skin, releasing the buttons with my teeth and tongue (which isn’t easy to do!), rubbing my body along side his, slow and seductive. Trust me, diary, it is possible to distract Sherlock Holmes.

_“Molly…”_

He tried to sound threatening, but was unsuccessful. Fortunately, his body gave him away.

 

_“I know I should practice…harder. Are you going to…punish me?”_

Oh crap, Sherlock got that look in his eyes…he was starting to like this game. I didn’t expect the tables to be turned on me. This wasn’t what I was going for. I wanted frustratedSherlock. ImpatientSherlock. Let-me-out-of-the-handcuffs-Sherlock. Not turnedonSherlock. Not backing-me-into-the-wall-towering-over-me-Sherlock, returning my seduction with his own.

 

_“You are being naughty, Doctor Hooper. I should turn you over my knee.”_

What the hell?!

 

_“But, instead, there’s a few things I need to do, so I'll leave you to practice on your own.”_

He smiled, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and added one more prose of superiority.

 

_“We’ll work on your ‘I'm in handcuffs’ seduction skills later on.”_

What the hell?!

_“Sherlock, let me out of the damn cuffs now! It’s not like I'm at risk of bondage working with a bunch of corpses.”_

_“One must always be prepared for the unexpected, Molly.”_

_“A zombie attack?”_

_“Stranger things have happened?_

_“Like what?”_

_“Us!”_

He walked out of the room, started down the stairs, but returned for one last smug remark:

_“Oh, I do like the new bra, by the way, and look forward to taking it off of you later.”_

This, dear diary, is gift-giving with Sherlock. I did get out of the cuffs and it took me less than two minutes. Probably because I was furious. And, just for the record, he never really left, but waited downstairs just to “see what I’d do.” As he “predicted” – to himself – I’d get out of the cuffs quickly, my anger being the fuel of heightened motivation.

Later on, the moment he was looking forward to (removing my new bra) came with a ‘turn-about-is-fair-play’ scenario. He needed to unhook it with only his teeth and tongue. So much for my ‘seduction skills,’ eh, Mr. Holmes? Only he was able to do it less than thirty seconds. Like I said in my previous journal, Sherlock comes with a steep learning curve.

For what sounds like bordering on complaints or frustrations, I must make it clear that each moment spent with Sherlock is precious to me. Being with this man comes with a few built in dangers. Learning how to defend, observe and even see the world through his eyes is a privilege, not a drudgery. And, I would spend a thousand more _“you better change your shoes”_ dates with him, than have what passes for a normal life. The things I’ve learned from him have no price tag, but are given freely from his desire to see me aware, safe and happy. But, most of all, his love. How could I not treasure this?

Now, I'm about to head out shopping for Christmas. The lists are made, with the exception of Sherlock. This is definitely going to require some special thinking skills and I know just the person who can help.


	2. Brown Paper Packages

** 10 December 2015 **

 

7:42 pm

 *  
*  
*

  _“Working late?” SH_

“No.” MH

_“Why aren’t you here?” SH_

“Where?” MH

_“Baker St.” SH_

“?” MH

_“…” SH_

“Sherlock?” MH

_“Yes.” SH_

“What’s going on?” MH

_“If you don’t want to be here, just say so.” SH_

“If you wanted me there, why don’t you say so?” MH

_“Just acknowledging your pattern.” SH_

“My what?” MH

_“Predictability of behavior.” SH_

“Sorry to have disturbed the Force, Obi Wan.” MH

_“?” SH_

“Really? Never-mind.” MH

_“When are you leaving?” SH_

“Early morning.” MH

_“You know what I think.” SH_

“I’ve been over this. Many times.” MH

_“If you say so.” SH_

“I can feel you pouting.” MH

_“You can’t feel pouting.” SH_

“Yes, you can, but I'm not going to argue.” MH

_“You wouldn’t win.” SH_

“If you say so.” MH

“Sherlock.” MH

_“Yes?” SH_

“Good-night.” MH

 

_“Molly?” SH_

_“Yes” MH_

_“What are you wearing?”_ SH

“ Nice try. Hang on, someone’s at the back door.” MH

 _*_  
*  
*

** 11 December 2015 **

5:30 am

 

You were at the door. Surprising, self-serving, clever, charming, and I was so happy to see you I think my heart leapt a bit. But, you already knew that…it’s why you showed up. Funny how easy it is to fall into a new rhythm like sleeping with one another, that when we’re not it feels odd…as though something’s missing.

Sherlock, I know your thoughts about me working with Scotland Yard in Brighton, and how you believe it’s a waste of my time, when I could ‘easily do the same here’. But, that’s not entirely true. The fact is, not only am I able to spend more time with Nan and Laura, which you were fine with, but I’m also getting the practical field experience that I _wouldn’t_ get here in London.

I’ve said all of this to you before, especially as this nearly turned into an argument last night. Now, I'm talking to you in my mind and on these pages, because I believe it’s possible to connect and feel one another without words or without being in each other’s presence. It’s how mother’s can feel something’s wrong with their children when they’re no where near one another. Or, how we can sense danger when the visual evidence suggests otherwise. Considering you make incredible, intuitive leaps all the time, I don’t see how you can argue with me.

Maybe it’s the fact that this is outside your control and you don’t like DI Taylor? Since the events at Sherrinford you’ve become almost hyper-vigilant about my safety, although you’d never admit that’s what this is about. Isn’t that why you’ve been relentless in teaching me things, making me aware? But, I'm not investigating crimes, Sherlock – I'm investigating _bodies_ at crime scenes.

Speaking of crimes…I’ve decided to give you your Christmas present early. You’ve been teetering on boredom since your last case – never a good thing - and hopefully this one will keep you occupied longer than five minutes. Greg assured me this was a cold case you hadn’t seen, especially since he had to dig deep into the archives. The unsolved disappearance of five young women, from the Hastings area, during 1963 to 1965, maybe a bit too easily dismissed as they were thought to be of “questionable reputation.” Their families have argued otherwise. A sixth woman, Eleanor Joyce Spalding, was originally thought to be one of them until her badly decomposed body was found almost seven months after her disappearance. But, you do have cloth, fiber and other trace evidence, as well as witness statements and photographs. The interesting thing about the autopsy report with Eleanor is that it indicated she’d recently given birth due to remodeling of the pubic bones, although no one knew anything about a baby. At the time, investigators believed she kept her pregnancy hidden and anonymously gave her child up for adoption, in an effort to spare her family’s ‘good’ name.

The part that leaves me uneasy is I haven’t given you a Christmas gift since… It’s not the best memory. You don’t like Christmas, or anything about it. So, no fanfare…I'm leaving the box next to your coat, along with a simple card:

 

_“For your consideration._

_Good Yule, Molly”_

You’re sound asleep and missing the first snow fall. It’s so pretty - silvery, soft and gentle…especially in the early morning, when it’s still dark, and the normal sounds seem to have taken their leave to let the quietude have it’s way. I like this time of day, but right now I would love nothing more than to climb back into bed with you, feel warm against your body, and drift into sleep. I already miss you.

I didn’t let you find them last night, but I made you cinnamon buns with ginger and cardamom, which you’re really going to like. You have an almost insatiable sweet tooth which, to be honest, I enjoy indulging now and again.

Right then, two brown paper packages, tide up with string, along side your coat.

Until next week. I love you xo

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a post-script...they had 'dinner' - with real food. Molly made salmon, a tomato bisque with basil, and salad. Sherlock ate Molly's salmon and Molly ate Sherlock's radicchio and beets. They like to share.


	3. Sweet Nothings

 

 

11 December 2015

 

10:13 am

*  
*  
*

_“Is this a pop culture quiz?” SH_

“What?” MH

“Oh! You _do_ pay attention.” MH

_“I detect a hint of cinnamon.” SH_

“Maybe.” MH

_“’For Your Consideration’?” SH_

“Yes.” MH

_“Oh, let me guess. You’ve given me a grant proposal.” SH_

“Cold.” MH

_“A list of your future apologies?” SH_

“Deep freeze.” MH

_“A manuscript about a genius and handsome private detective, who defies logic?” SH_

“Instantly transported to Antarctica.” MH

_“Hang on, I'll get it.” SH_

“I'm working, you know.” MH

_“You’re ‘hanging out’ with a mediocre D.I, who is the epitome of the Peter Principle. That’s babysitting.” SH_

“~ Sigh ~” MH

_“My thoughts exactly.” SH_

“I have to go.” MH

_“ I'm not done guessing. A do-it-yourself spice garden?” SH_

“Brrrr.” MH

_“New lingerie for you, that meets my approval?” SH_

“You’re on a deep space trajectory, heading directly for a black hole.” MH

_“Right. A thousand piece puzzle?” SH_

“Warmer.” MH

_“Really?” SH_

“You’re the ‘handsome, private detective that defies logic.’ You’ll work it out.” MH

_“’Good Yule’?” SH_

“For the Grinch who has everything.” MH

_“Ah, yes! A box full of dirt and particles.” SH_

“A very warm, summer breeze.” MH

_“Intrigued.” SH_

“I know.” MH

_“When are you coming home?” SH_

“The 15th” MH

_“Thought you might have changed your mind.” SH_

_“Molly, why now and not Christmas?” SH_

“You don’t like Christmas.” MH

_“True, but allowances can be made.” SH_

“I won’t be in London anyway.” MH

_“Where will you be?” SH_

“Here.” MH

_“Why?” SH_

“I like Christmas.” MH

*  
*  
*

 

**8:30 pm**

Today was exhausting, in a good way. Two autopsies, several crime scenes and an interesting conversation about the young woman that was found last August on the beach. She has yet to be identified and although the case hasn’t grown cold, it’s also not seeing much of an investigation. Mark, DI Taylor, stated there’s very little to go on. Being in the water for an extended period washed away most of the evidence that might have been helpful and dental records have turned up nothing. So far, no one has reported anyone missing that fits her description or identified her through the composite sketch. She’s been entered into the INTERPOL database and, for now, dubbed: _Maiden Blue_. I’ve got the autopsy report and Mark said he’d give me the investigative notes tomorrow – especially since they could use a ‘fresh set of eyes’.

What a horrible feeling…to go missing and no one even notices you’re gone…

Nan and Laura are always so happy when I'm here and made a lovely dinner that unfortunately grew cold as my day was much longer than usual. I'm too tired to eat, and only wanted to soak in a hot bath.

I'm going to start decorating this weekend, especially since Henry offered to help. Nan is so excited I'll be here for Yule and has been dropping not-so-blatant hints for me to invite DI Taylor for Christmas dinner. She swears he fancies me. I haven’t told her, or really anyone, about Sherlock. John and Mrs Hudson know, as does Mycroft. I think. Of course he knows. Once everyone knows you’re in a relationship, there’s all kinds of opinions and expectations, especially around the holidays. When I saw Greg last week and asked him to find a cold case for Sherlock, he knew immediately….

~*~

_“So, it’s true, then. You and Sherlock?”_

 “I…um…don’t you think it’s a good Christmas gift?”

_“God, what must that be like?”_

“What?”

_“Never mind, I don’t want to know. Just don’t say anything to Anderson. I listened to two years of crazy, whacked out theories about how Sherlock was alive – turned out he was right, wasn’t he? And you lied. The only reason you weren’t charged with obstruction, burying a fake corpse, and God knows what else, is because his big brother protected you. If Anderson knows about this, I'll never hear the end of it.”_

“Why...?”

_“Yeah, well, he thought you were in on it from the start, which you were. And, you two were ‘secret’ lovers.”_

“Oh…”

_“Was he right?”_

“Greg, just find a case. Please.”

_I’ve got one he hasn’t seen. Was gonna ask him to take a look anyway_. _I'll bring it to you tomorrow on one condition.”_

“What’s that?”

_“He has to share whatever he finds.”_

~*~ _  
_

Nan likes Sherlock. A lot. Even though she only met him once, at his charming best. But, if she knew, all the questions would start: ‘Will he be here for the holidays?’ Or, ‘Would you two like to do such and such?’ Or, ‘What should I get him for Christmas?’ Before we broke things off, Tom’s parents had me driving a people carrier, bags filled with nappies and soccer games on the weekend. They might have named our children too.

It’s not that other’s aren’t well-intended, but…just no. It’s too soon. Maybe I can tell Nan during the holiday, or after the new year…she’ll understand.

As for people I work with...something’s should stay private.

 

_*_  
*  
*

A text from Sherlock. Finally.

_“Well done, Molly.” SH_

"What for?" MH

_"See you the 15th." SH_

"I expect so." MH

_*_  
*  
*

 Not sure if he’s talking about the cinni buns, the case, or both. Guess I'll find out next week. Okay, I can’t take the suspense.

*

“What did I do well?” MH

“Sherlock?” MH

 

Then I waited. And, waited…waited even more.

*

“You’re enjoying this far more than you should.” MH

  _“Life is meant to be enjoyed, Hooper.” SH_

“You’re not going to tell me, are you, Holmes?” MH

_“Nope.” SH_

“Well, then, I'll have to talk to someone more interesting.” MH

_“The cat?” SH_

“G'night.” MH

  _“What are you wearing?” SH_

“Nothing.” MH

_“How much of nothing?” SH_

“Do you _really_ want to know?” MH

_“Of course.” SH_

“Quid pro quo, Holmes.” MH

_“The ginger and cardamom are a nice touch.” SH_

“Glad you liked them.” MH

_“They’re gone. John and Mrs. Hudson’s fault.” SH_

‘Aww, you shared.” MH

_“Just like you’re about to do.” SH_

“Naked…lounging in a warm bath, with salts and oils.” MH

_“Come home early.” SH_

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” MH

_“Hooper?” SH_

“Yes?” MH

_“I love you.” SH_

“I know. xo” MH

*  
*  
*

He makes me laugh. Even before…now.

Would it be so bad if one day we came here for a Christmas gathering? I’ve always wanted that, being together with people I love, opening packages in the early morning, everyone laughing and talking over one another during a magnificent dinner, while the dog sneaks food under the table. Afterward, too full to do anything, we fall asleep in front of the fireplace. Even the dog.

And the cat. Cannot forget the cat.


	4. It's Sunday. They Won't Mind.

It’s Sunday. They Won’t Mind.

*

13 December 2015

 

Maiden Blue. What a name. Nan said it sounded like it should belong to a band from the 1970’s, instead of a young woman, who can’t be more than twenty-five years old. She also suggested I might want to have my friend, Sherlock Holmes, take a look at the case. After all, “he’s so brilliant.”

Still, it would be nice to see and connect patterns on my own, just to test my capability as a Forensic Pathologist in the field. I know I can make those connections with the body and provide conclusions about how a person died, and to certain extent lived. I can tell how old they were when they broke a bone and even how it might have happened. But, what about the events that took place in their lives that led up to that moment? Who they spoke with, the things that concerned them, what were all those movements that led them to be on my table? They had a life beyond stomach contents. How did MB end up in the water, washed on shore, for us to solve her puzzle?

Sherlock is right when he uses that phrase - “puzzle” – because that’s exactly what they are. Likened to the cardboard kind you get in a box, cases start off with pieces that you have to connect with other pieces, only they’re hidden, obscured, by all kinds of distractions. Being able to see this process as a ‘game,’ I suspect, allows him to detach from his emotions so his judgement isn’t clouded. It’s this ability of his – the result of his intelligence and genius – that I admire and am left in awe. To watch him is like witnessing a masterpiece of art in motion. Of course he offends everyone around him because most people want their feelings coddled, or to conduct ourselves by polite rules, which Sherlock could care less about when focused on the ‘game.’ He knows comfort won’t solve the case, or complete the puzzle. Comfort and sentiment are not always useful distractions. But, I have to say, he’s incredibly patient teaching me things, probably far more patient than I would be teaching someone else.

Isn’t it funny how much Sherlock’s ‘friends’ have changed him over the years, but also how he’s changed us? We don’t always have to see the horrific through his eyes…there’s also the beautiful, and even innocent.

I wonder, though, what does he do with it all afterward? The horror. Because Sherlock feels and his sense of justice is the most pronounced of anyone I’ve ever met. I'm pretty sure that’s why Greg admires him – why we all do and put up with so many things we’d never tolerate from anyone else. I’ve seen it though, that look he gets, just like after Jim Moriarty killed himself and Sherlock texted me to set ‘Lazarus’ in motion. I handled the body while a few of Mycroft’s ‘people’ took care of the blood evidence. There was so much to do and very little time to do it in.

For someone who’s a proclaimed atheist, he rather liked the code name Mycroft gave his mission, with the added reminder this didn’t give him super powers to walk on water. If people really knew how he pulled off that rooftop stunt, they’d either be thoroughly amazed or completely disappointed. Sherlock wagers disappointed. Sorry Phillip Anderson, there was no bungee jumping, window crashing, kiss afterward. There was a kiss, but it didn’t happen like that. After so many long months, time has a way of fading memories. I almost couldn’t remember if it was real.

So, my case…I noticed that Maiden Blue has some similarities to the cold case Greg found for Sherlock. The big exception is that Sherlock’s case is well over fifty years old. Maiden Blue gave birth approximately three months prior to washing up on the shore and if I recall so did Eleanor Spalding. Did both of these women surrender their babies for adoption? Is it just a coincidence, or are young, gravid puerperal women more vulnerable to violent attacks? And, I still haven’t been able to figure out what these half moon-like indentations are around the Maiden’s right shoulder and upper arm. They’re faint, and only recognizable because of bruising, but they don’t look like anything I’ve seen before. The autopsy report barely mentions them, but they’re so unique in pattern it’s left me curious. I have to remember to ask Mark.

 

~*~

_“What are you doing?” SH_

“Reading & writing. You?” MH

_“Ah, the basics. Did you ‘decorate’?” SH_

“Yes.” MH

_“Molly?” SH_

“Hmm?” MH

_“What are you wearing?” SH_

“You’re determined to get it right, aren’t you?” MH

_“Answer the question.” SH_

“Make me.” MH

_“How about I ‘guess’?” SH_

“Not as much fun, but suit yourself.” MH

_“You have to tell me if I'm right.” SH_

“Fair enough” MH

_“Let’s see…it’s 7:15, you’ve spent a long day doing whatever it is you do, including decorating for the holidays.” SH_

“On point, but I just told you that.” MH

_“You’re more than likely lounging in the library, after a hot bath, wearing pink striped pajama bottoms, a long sleeve white t-shirt, with one of your father’s old sweaters.”_

“…” MH

_“What?” SH_

“Sherlock, did you put cameras in my house?” MH

_“No.” SH_

“You haven’t all of a sudden become psychic…” MH

_“I also suspect you didn’t lock your doors.” SH_

“Alright, now you’re scaring me…how do you know this?” MH

_“Because I'm standing outside the library.” SH_

_~*~_

Wow, twice in a few days you’ve managed to surprise me beyond any expectations. It’s nice. Even though I knew you didn’t show up because you couldn’t wait until Tuesday to take off my knickers. Still, to see you, have you here again, just us this time…

 ~*~

“So, what brings you here, sailor?”

_“I prefer pirate.”_

“Even better. Have you come to check out my ‘booty.’”

_“Oh, Molly…”_

“It’s a bit funny.”

_“Better than your morgue humor.”_

“Oh, _cut_ me some slack, I'm always _dead_ on with the puns.”

~*~

And, that was foreplay. For a moment, I actually thought I was wrong about you not being able to wait. Until you said you felt like taking a “little road trip to Hastings” and then I knew – you opened your brown paper package, tied up with string, because curious puzzles are your favorite thing. You came to say ‘Thank you’ – with the most generous of offerings: You.

There’s a scene in one of my favorite movies, where a man is taking a bath and his wife is sitting on the floor along side the tub talking with him. It’s as normal for them as a conversation over tea. She moves to place a kiss on his cheek, when he pulls her into the bathtub with him and they laugh and kiss and remind each other how much they’re in love. You did that tonight and it’s doubtful you’ve ever seen that movie. This is now among my favorite memories. Wet clothes and hair, warm in the water with you, kissing and tasting your skin fresh from the soap, and mint on your tongue. And, you making me laugh, while you take off my clothes, heavy with water, piece-by-piece.

We (you) had late night American pancakes with blueberries (even though you wanted chocolate) – because Mrs. Hudson refuses to make them. Too difficult, or something like that. They’re really quite easy, but I'll let you believe I perform miracles and magic with food chemistry. I admire your metabolism and the capacity to ingest sugar without the consequences going to your hips or thighs.

So, we’re going to Hastings in the morning, although I still feel a bit uneasy about the ‘records’ you want to get. I reminded you that those offices were closed on the weekend, to which you replied: _“We’ll just have to break-in. It’s Sunday, they won’t mind.”_ I’ve never done a ‘breaking and entering’ before – and while part of me is excited, another part of me is saying ‘Oh my god, what if we get caught!’ I'm choosing to believe the part where you said, _‘they won’t mind.’_ Besides, you’re the pirate. If you get us into a mess, I'm looking to you to get us out. Unless, of course, feminine wiles are needed and in that case I'll do my best. I wish we were doing this at night, Sherlock. At least then I could dress like Cat Woman. After all, aren’t disguises a necessary part of being sneaky and criminal? I have to wear the perfect outfit. And, we’re taking your car, especially after that last conversation, which left Mrs. Hudson confused and John wanting to wash his brain.

 

~*~

_“Molly, we’re not taking your Barbie car.”_

“Stop calling my Mini Cooper a Barbie car. If Rosie was old enough to understand, you’d confuse her.”

_“You don’t really drive a Barbie car do you, Molly?”_

“No, Mrs. Hudson, I do not.”

_“It’s too small for any normal human being.”_

“Matt Damon fit just fine.”

_“Who he?”_

_“Oh! Matt Damon rode in your car, dear? He’s so handsome.”_

“He’s a…uh…he’s a friend. Yeah.”

_“Funny you’ve never mentioned him.”_

_“You know Matt Damon, Molly?”_

“Why should I? You don’t mention everything.”

_“I don’t have strange men in my toy car.”_

“He’s not strange.”

_“Then we agree it’s a toy car.”_

“This is ridiculous, Sherlock. It’s a beautiful day. I can put the top down.”

_“Where did you meet him?”_

“Who?”

_“Mike. Melvin.”_

“Matt. Umm, well let’s see…he’s, uh, from…work.”

_“I don’t think Matt Damon works at Bart’s, dear.”_

_“Why isn’t he on your friend’s list in Facebook?”_

“I. Don’t. Have. Facebook. Especially giving you easy access to spy.”

_“That’s right, you don’t. Not sure who I was thinking of. Someone. Instagram?”_

“No.”

_“See, you’re not a normal person, Molly.”_

“I'm very normal, Sherlock. Just private.”

_“So, do you really know Matt Damon, dear?”_

“No!” /  _“Mrs. Hudson!”_

“Sherlock. Matt Damon isn’t real. I mean, he is real, but he wasn’t in my car. I only meant he fit in a mini Cooper just fine and so can you.”

_“How do you know? Did you ask him?”_

“Oh, god, I need a wall.”

_“Why?_

“So I can bang my head against it.”

_“Sherlock?”_

_“Yes, John.”_

_“Remember how I made you watch James Bond?”_

_“Yes, he was moderately entertaining.”_

_“Yeah, well, tonight you’re going to meet Jason Bourne.”_

_“Who’s he?”_

~*~

And that’s why we’re taking your car to Hastings, while I tell you all about how Tony Stark drove your car through the desert. For now, though, I'm going to take off my dry clothes, slip quietly into bed with you, and see what a girl has to do to wake a sleeping pirate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big and heartfelt thank you to all who left lovely comments about the last chapter. I promise I'll answer...but wanted to get a few chapters ahead first. xo
> 
> Oh, the movie Molly is talking about is "Big Fish."


	5. Hastings by the Sea

Chapter 5

Hastings by the Sea

13 December 2015

*  
*  
*

 ~*~

_"What do you know about Hastings?”_

 “I know it was a profitable smuggling port during the Napoleonic Wars.”

_“Yes. And?”_

“A castle was washed away by the sea.”

“…”

“Alright, it was, _is_ , a fishing port, with moderate industry and a population of about ninety thousand, making it the smallest borough in East Sussex. It was also named after the Battle of Hastings in the year ten-something. Oh, they’ve held an International Music Festival for the past one hundred and seven years…I’ve never been, but maybe one day.”

_“Anything else, oh, maybe a bit seedier than fact checking with Wikipedia?”_

 “Well, it’s a port, so…smuggling…drugs, black market goods? Human trafficking? Even in the 1960’s?”

_“As far back as time. People trading continues to take place. Human Beings become the commodity to meet a variety of needs. Simple supply and demand.”_

“So, you’re suggesting that these women, including Eleanor, were part of a larger…scheme?”

  _“Don’t know. The question is: What do all these women have in common? All serial crime, and balance of probability says it is, has a pattern – something unique, but same, to each victim. The problem is, it’s not always visible. Sometimes quite convoluted. We only have one body…sorry, person, to go on since the others remain missing. But, we do have their personal history and some facts, what was last known about them. In this case, maybe the better question is to look for is what’s different. What’s not there.”_

“ I, uh, don’t know. Give me a moment… Eleanor?”

_“And, why is that?”_

“She had a baby about three months prior to her body being found.”

_“Which means?”_

“You’ve caught me off guard. Sorry, Sherlock, I only glanced through the case notes.”

_“Alright. Do you know when Eleanor went missing?”_

“Yeah, it was…Oh my god! I didn’t connect…she was pregnant when she was abducted.”

_“Exactly. Now, we don’t know if other women were pregnant, and none of the witness or family statements say they were, or had babies ---“_

“Unless, Sherlock, their babies were discretely placed for adoption. It was the 1960’s and all kinds of misogynistic practices, like protecting ‘fallen reputations’ took place. Crap like that.”

_“Feminist.”_

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know. Besides…really? You don’t find those social mores and practices as patriarchal dominant, or misogynistic?”

_“It’s barbaric.”_

“Good save.”

_“But, in the same vein of what you’re saying, if family’s were about protecting reputations, how their community saw them, they probably wouldn’t mention a pregnancy out of wedlock, would they?”_

“Sherlock, this case is over fifty years old. The parents are probably dead, or at best nearing one hundred. And, if they’re alive, hopefully they’re not senile.”

_“Medical records, Molly, and there were siblings. Everyone knows about the skeletons in their family closet.”_

“The records…where do you suggest we find them? Those medical practices no longer exist.”

_“Good question, and you’re about to find out, since you’ll have full access.”_

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

_“Probably.”_

 “So, _we’re_ not actually ‘breaking and entering’? _I_ am. ‘ _It’s Sunday. They won’t mind…’_ There’s no staff around, or it’s minimal at best.”

_“Aren’t you glad your doctor’s badge comes in handy?”_

 “Is that anything like your gold star in chemistry?”

_“Maybe.”_

“Why did you choose chemistry?”

_“I like it. Why did you choose playing doctor?”_

“I like it.”

  _“Now that that’s out of the way.”_

“The medical records –-”

_“We’ll need copies, unless you want to lift the originals. Up to you.”_

“What are you going to do?”

_“Make a visit to Miguel Alvarez, aka Michael Arnett.”_

“Who’s he?”

_“An architect, and probably Eleanor’s former lover.”_

“What?”

_“Police suspected him of her disappearance, suggested he raped and dumped her body. They couldn’t prove it, of course – he had a solid alibi, along with witness statements, including his University professor – but police continued to harass him.”_

“Why?”

_“Possibly because Eleanor’s parents didn’t like him. He was a poor, foreign student at University. Classic prejudice, and he was convenient.”_

 “What happened to him?”

_“He left. Went back to Spain, until he returned thirty-eight years ago under the name of Micheal Arnett, an up and coming restoration architect.”_

 “Interesting.”

_“Possibly.”_

“Sherlock?”

_“Yes.”_

“You’re an excellent teacher.”

 ~*~

We drove ahead in silence, but I could tell my admiration pleased him.

As Sherlock suspected, getting the records wasn’t _that_ difficult. Although, the one attendant present – and I use that term loosely – tried to give me a hard time since I was without release forms. I was rather proud of myself and acted brave, as though I knew what I was doing, pulled my ‘doctor’s badge’ and referred back to the original search warrants. This was still an open case. I have no idea if any of that was true, but he didn’t argue.

Sherlock’s interview went well, too. Michael was alive, well and living with his daughter in a home he designed. He was able to recall Eleanor with detail…they were in love and wanted to marry. Eleanor’s parents were against the union, in spite of her pregnancy. They threatened to cut her off, send her away, so she and Michael secretly planned to run off to Spain. She never showed up for the ferry to France and when Michael went looking for her, confronted her parents, he was immediately arrested on suspicion of kidnapping and, months down the road, murder.

What a horrible tragedy. Not that all tragedies aren’t horrible…

I read through medical reports on the drive home, and continued to read while making our tea. Nan stopped over, while Sherlock was in the library, and my plans for telling her about us until after the holidays flew out the window.

~*~

_“When did you and Sherlock start seeing each other?”_

“What?”

_“You heard me, Margaret.”_

“How d’you know?”

_‘Are you happy?”_

“Yes.”

_“And, you’ve forgiven him…”_

“For…?”

_“Breaking your heart.”_

“You knew?”

_“From the moment you two saw each other at Peter’s memorial. It’s in the eyes. Some people don’t go into love easily.”_

“Well, Sherlock is ---”

_“I'm talking about both of you.”_

“Oh.”

_“Have you invited him for the holiday?”_

“I knew you were going to ask that.”

_“It’s a normal question.”_

“He doesn’t like Christmas.”

_“It doesn’t mean you don’t ask. Leave the door open for surprises…don’t forget you’re growing together now.”_

_~*~_

I rarely like it when Nan does that thing she does – being right. I hadn’t thought of it that way – “growing together,” but of course it makes sense…it’s logical. Why does it feel like my stomach is doing flip-flops and the gravity of being in a relationship has come to a new awareness?

I brought dinner into the library and kept it simple on the off-chance you’d eat. You’re focused on this case, but it’s quite different from the ones you normally take on.

 ~*~

“I have a suspicion you’ve already solved this.”

  _“Possibly. At least I have a good idea what happened. The end result, unfortunately, is disappointing.”_

“I'm sorry it wasn’t…better.”

_“What?”_

“I don’t mean ‘better’, I meant… Never mind.”

_“Well, this case has either been deliberately overlooked, or far exceeds the intelligence of the locals. It’s not that difficult. They looked for a simple and convenient answer, and when they couldn’t find one, they didn’t bother to ask different questions.”_

“What are you thinking?”

_“What’s the one thing these women had in common?”_

“They were all pregnant.”

_“Exactly. So, why would anyone abduct pregnant women?”_

“Sherlock, are you saying…?”

_“Balance of probability. I can’t prove it, but when you rule out everything else, whatever remains must be the truth.”_

“Black market adoption?”

_“More than that. If a baby goes missing, it captures the spotlight. Everybody’s paying attention. Very hard to cover up with eyes and ears everywhere. Not that it can’t be done, but why take the risk? But, if you’re in the business of peddling babies for profit, maybe to people who can’t adopt through normal channels, how would you go about it?”_

_“_ You’re saying these women were abducted just to get their babies? That seems like an awful lot of work, not to mention having to cover up the crime of kidnapping, to get something they would willingly give.”

_“Maybe they never intended to give up their babies? Eleanor was planning to leave with Michael, start a new life in Spain.”_

“So they were targeted specifically?”

_“Yes. Their reputations were discredited, and given the morality standards set for women and their conduct, they really didn’t illicit much sympathy, did they? With the exception of their families, who wanted to hide the ‘shame.’”_

“You do realize, Sherlock, what it would take to pull something like this off? The resources, the money and medical care…where would they even be kept? You’re talking months! And, what about after they had their babies? What then?”

_“They’re no longer very useful, are they? Unless they can be sold, too.”_

_~*~_

If I was hungry, the last thing I could do was eat. The thought of food, and what Sherlock suggested, left me sick. If any of this was true, and he was very certain it was, I couldn’t even begin to imagine the horror those women went through. I can’t imagine any of it. What Sherlock _wasn’t_ saying was even more frightening. One person couldn’t do all of this, and yet my mind continues to struggle with the idea of a ‘conspiracy.’ Anyone could be involved, including the doctor who originally saw these women…someone they trusted.

~*~

_“Are you okay?”_

“No. No, I'm not. It’s one thing to think about someone acting-out from mental illness, psychosis, or even diminished capacity, but this? Seeing women and their unborn babies as nothing more than chattel. These people are monsters, Sherlock.”

_“I'll talk with Lestrade tomorrow, let him know what we found. This case sat in the dust for a very long time, Molly, and it’s because of you people will finally have some answers.”_

_~*~_

Hearing you, knowing what you meant, did nothing to leave me feeling better.

You’re still in the library, working through more details. I took a bath hoping my thoughts would be able to escape your discovery. Where did their babies go? Were they given to families that loved and cared for them? Or, were they sold off to the highest bidder, whose intention no one cared about? There’s got to be records someplace. Some way of tracking how this business was done.

I didn’t say anything to you, but I can’t help wonder if the same thing didn’t happen to MB? If that’s the case, and it’s a scary thought, the conspiracy lives on.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case Sherlock and Molly investigated is a fictionalized of amalgamation of several real life cases. My twenty-something career spanned a specialized field of government which existed between law enforcement and justice, and very 'sneaky.' The point is, I drew upon actual experience when creating this case and, unfortunately, it didn't require much imagination. 
> 
> The case is horrific, which also refers back to something Mycroft Holmes told John Watson when they first met: "When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battle field." It's not an exact quote, but close enough. 
> 
> Molly has always been peripherally aware of Sherlock's cases, either directly from him, or John's blog, but as she expands her knowledge as a forensic pathologist, working with crime scene investigation, she's getting a first hand knowledge of that 'battle field' - and it's effecting her in ways she wasn't quite prepared.


	6. The Marys

The Marys 

 14 December 2015

*  
*  
*

It was almost morning when I felt you slip into bed, quiet and carefully, probably hoping not to wake me. The truth was, there was no sleeping tonight…at least restful sleep. I curled in closer to you and I'm never sure how you know, but you whispered the reassurance I needed to hear.

~*~

  _"You have to find a way to let something’s go, Molly. You can't bring them back, and you can’t let the evil that did this rob you of your focus. Otherwise, you’re left powerless like those women. They deserve your fire, not your grief.”_

 “I know…”

  _“You once told me to ‘focus’…it saved it my life.”_

 “I don’t remember that.”

  _“I was dying…you told me what to do.”_

 “When?”

  _“When I was shot.”_

 “Sherlock, we weren’t speaking…I wasn’t there. ”

  _“You were in my mind.”_

 “Me. You thought of me?”

  _“I trusted you, and I'm asking you to trust me. You have control over how you focus.”_

“I trust you.”

  _“Good, because you have more important things to think about and do.”_

“Like what?”

_"Christmas!”_

“What?”

  _“Well, you can’t really expect Mrs. Hudson, John, Rosie and I to have a good time if you’re moping.”_

“What!?”

  _“Is something wrong with your hearing?”_

 “No…I'm just...what?”

  _“Look, it’s very simple. We’ll be here Christmas eve through Boxing Day. Questions?”_

“What?”

  _“Molly, this conversation has no hope of progressing if all you keep saying is ‘what?’.”_

“H…how?”

_“Your Nan asked a week ago. Found my number on the website. I told John that sometimes happens.”_

“But, I just talked with her…she never said anything.”

  _“She didn’t think you’d get around to asking. Something about something. I filtered.”_

“And, you conspired with her…even though you don’t like Christmas.”

_"I told you, allowances can be made.”_

“John and Mrs. Hudson…do they know?”

_“Of course. Admittedly, they were rather surprised, although I don’t know why. I'm a perfectly reasonable person that understands the need to adapt. Odd though, Mrs. Hudson thought I’d taken ill.”_

“I can’t imagine. So, I'm the last to know?”

_“Obviously.”_

“It’s Rosie’s first Christmas.”

_“Yes.”_

“I'll get a tree. We can decorate.”

  _“Oh, joy. Mrs. Hudson will be thrilled.”_

“Hang stockings.”

_“I can hardly contain myself.”_

“Not for you. Rosie.”

  _“Why don’t I get a stocking?”_

“Do you have a use for coal?”

_“A long time ago, coal would have been considered quite a valuable heat source. As a matter of fact, the legend began with La Bafana in Italy--”_

“Do you think Nan, Laura and Mrs. Hudson will get on?”

  _“Like teenagers in an ‘herbal soother’ shop.”_

“Oh, right. They might disappear for hours on end.”

  _“No doubt.”_

 “Sherlock?”

_“Yes.”_

“Thank you.”

  _“For what?”_

 “Adapting.”

_“Anytime.”_

_~*~_

A year ago I never would have imagined this. A year ago, Sherlock and I were barely talking and on Christmas Day… It’s another story I know very little, but had something to do with protecting Mary. Two days after he’d been pardoned, Sherlock showed up at Bart’s, reminiscent of the last time he returned, only years hadn’t gone by. Like before, he surprised me in the locker room, waiting in the shadows, with a single-minded purpose.

  _~*~_

_“You know it’s not Moriarty.”_

“Of course. He’s dead.”

_"Are you worried?”_

“Why would I be?”

_“You tell me.”_

“I'm fine.”

  _“Molly, it’s under---”_

“I said I'm fine.”

  _"Please, forgive me.”_

 “I'm glad things worked out for you, Sherlock.”

_~*~_

I didn’t lie, but it also wasn’t the whole truth. Everything about Jim Moriarty gave me nightmares. I’ve never told Sherlock about all the sordid details…I can’t think of any reason why I would, or should. It’s not something we talk about, former lovers – or the deception from psychopaths. We’re allowed our past…he has his secrets, too.

I bought a Christmas tree! It’ll be delivered and set up in the morning before I leave for London. While I was at the nursery, I wandered through the barn and tucked away in a corner I saw a statue of the Mother Mary. I’d never seen a casting like this before…she was more evocative and real, almost pagan, like Brighid. She was all the Mary’s…not just the virgin or mother, but the lover and wife. Even the Mary that’s absent from our lives. And, she came home with me. Her place is among the Holly and Yew, outside the sitting room windows, watching over her family. She is our immortal Mary and always with us.

Nan is undoubtedly pleased with herself. The whole time she kept hinting at Mark Taylor fancying me was just a sneaky way to get me to tell her about Sherlock.

Christmas…a delightful conspiracy of Love.


	7. Christmas in East Dean

Christmas in East Dean

 

25 December 2015

  _And, this is how I see you_  
_In the snow on Christmas morning_  
_Love and happiness surround you_  
_As you throw your arms up to the sky_  
_I keep this moment by and by_.

 Wintersong, Sarah McLachlan

 For Mary

 

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Except for Sherlock, who was thrice busy making logistical lists on how the morning would go – what time everyone should wake up, what we should do first, when breakfast should be served and that film, not pictures, were the best way to capture Rosie’s first Christmas morning. He also had a running commentary on what I was putting in everyone’s stocking, pointing out that Rosie was far too young for sweeties, nuts, or peeling Satsumas. Trying to explain to him that it was the idea that was important, not the fact she would actually eat the stuff, was an exercise in futility – until I asked him what he got to put in the stockings and he immediately shut up.

And, it was no longer Christmas eve, but instead after midnight. Colorfully wrapped presents were tucked under the (finally!) decorated tree --- note to self: Sherlock and John decorating a Christmas tree should Not. Ever. Happen. Again. Ever. As a matter of fact, distracting Sherlock with something else is imperative for everyone’s well being and mental health. I mean, who the hell works out “mathematical equations” to measure the length between ornaments for “optimal spatial pleasure”? Sherlock Holmes does, that’s who. And, while it was charming, instead of Christmas music, Sherlock entertained us with probably every Yule tree tradition known to man, since the dawn of time. Along with remarking that I was remiss in not having Birch logs – aka Yule logs – for the hearth. That is until Nan showed up a short time later to prove him wrong. Thank the Elves!

So, what was my point? Oh, that’s right – presents tucked neatly under the tree (although organized by size and color, thanks to Sherlock) and now…well, now he could barely contain himself to go downstairs and set out a display of Baby Einstein presents for Rosie, from ‘Santa’ – which he found ridiculous to perpetuate a myth that will eventually turn into a cruel lie, which will shatter Rosie’s perception of trust, causing feelings of betrayal, and might one day lead her into therapy.

 ~*~

“Sherlock?”

  _“Yes.”_

“Were you _ever_ a child? Engaged in play…fantasy…make-believe?”

_“…”_

“I'm waiting.”

_“I was always brilliant.”_

“No doubt. Still…”

_“I was perfectly logical and reasonable. Mycroft is my older brother, after all.”_

“That explains a lot.”

_“Explains what?”_

 “Why you act like a child now.”

~*~

But, then he did it – the thing that Sherlock does, that takes me by surprise and melts my heart and mind into a puddle of unintelligible goo.

 ~*~

_“Sit on the bed, Molly, and close your eyes.”_

 “Why?”

_“Because that’s what you’re suppose to do when someone asks.”_

“Okay…”

~*~

I felt him place a long, heavy box in my arms and could not begin to imagine what he might be surprising me with…although fairly certain it wasn’t handcuffs this time.

 ~*~

_“I wanted to give you this in private. Just us.”_

 “Sherlock…”

_“Open your eyes.”  
~*~_

I recognized the beautifully wrapped package from Harrods and almost didn’t want to open it, but instead allow this memory to linger a bit longer. Inside was the most perfect and lovely black dress I’d ever seen. A form fitting, cami strapped, Victoria Beckham formal gown, with a matching satin dress coat.

 ~*~

_“Do you like it?”_

“Oh my…oh…oh, I can’t form words, Sherlock. It’s stunning...”

_“I had it tailored for three inch heels, but two inch should work fine as well.”_

“What?”

_“There’s one more…you don’t need to close your eyes.”_

_~*~_

He reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out the all too familiar turquoise box, adorned with a simple silver bow. A pair of Akoya pearl drop earrings with diamond studs from Tiffany’s.

 

~*~ _“_

_“You’re crying. Why are you crying? Did I do something wrong?”_

 “Oh my God, Sherlock…no…no…nothing’s wrong.”

_“In that case, if you’d do me the pleasure, I have this ‘thing’ on New Year’s Eve. I don’t normally--”_

“Yes! A million yes’s!”

~*~

I threw myself into his arms, almost knocking him to the floor, which he probably wouldn’t have minded, considering what gift giving eventually led to, and the fact we ended up on the floor anyway. In front of the Christmas tree.

 ~*~

“Sherlock, what if John or Mrs. Hudson walk in on us?”

_“Didn’t you ask me earlier if I ever had childhood fantasies?”_

“Yes, but— Wait. What?”

_“Ho, Ho, Ho, Molly. Have you been a good, little elf?”_

“…”

_“If you don’t stop laughing, you will wake them.”_

“Okay, okay…Oh my, Santa, is that a peppermint stick in your pocket, or are you just really jolly to see me?”

_“You need to stop talking, Molly, or you’ll kill the mood.”_

“Ooo, Santa, the only package I want for Christmas is yours.”

_“Oh, dear Lord.”_

“I wanna climb your sled, big guy, and jingle your bells.”

_“Where’s John or Mrs. Hudson when you need them?”_

“I’ve been up all night, excited for Santa to _…come.”_

_“I should move you to the naughty list.”_

“I can give you sixty-nine reasons why.”

_“A not so silent night, then…”_

“All I want for Sexmas---”

_“Is you.”_

_~*~_

I had another gift for him, as well. A David Hockney sketch that was hanging in my father’s library. I noticed how much he admired it when he was here for Taid’s memorial service and knew then that it ‘belonged’ with him. Sometimes, he’s so much like my father that it leaves me paused for breath. I don’t know if he realizes, but this place suites him well – everything here does. He comes alive, even without a case. All of this is his home, even if he doesn’t know it. Every blade of grass, every swaying tree, the sunrises and sunsets. Especially the bees.

It seemed like no sooner did we fall asleep, that Mrs. Hudson knocked at our bedroom door, telling us to wake up and come down for breakfast. So much for Sherlock’s logistic list. But, what a sight to behold. Rosie encircled by grandmothers fussing over her, making her giggle and squeal with excitement. Sherlock _not-so-sneakily_ sneaking cakes instead of eating quiche. John goading Sherlock into a game of billiards by wagering it’s the one game he can’t win, and I watched every nuance, every moment unfold, pinching myself to make sure it was real. All of this is real. These are the people I love. Oh, my little book of secrets, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so overwhelmed by happiness…so much so I thought I would cry. I did cry. These are the memories worth holding onto.

I quietly left the room, grabbed a sweater, and went outside to speak with the Marys. I thanked them for this family and promised I’d do my best. But, most of all, I promised Mary that Rosie would always know how much her mother loved…loves her, and that her memory would never fade. Rosie belongs to all of us and we would fill her world with love and happiness.

It was cold and a light snow had started to fall. The pond was frozen over and I thought how lovely it might be to go skating later on…I haven’t done that for years. I felt so light and playful, I swear my feet could fly across the ice.

Presents were torn open with excitement…hand-loomed woolen scarves from Nan, tins of cakes and biscuits, abstract paintings from Laura – which left John a bit quizzical – Taid’s research on bees gifted to Sherlock, too many wonderful gifts to mention. But, when John opened Cards Against Humanity, the look that came over his face, especially when he stared down Sherlock, the ‘game’ was definitely on.

  _~*~_

_“Forget billiards. This. After dinner. And, you can’t cheat.”_

_“I don’t cheat, John. I simply arrive at logical conclusions. It’s hardly my fault that dullards create games that are irrational.”_

_“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Einstein. This is a different kind of genius...something you lack.”_

_“What? I don’t lack anything. What could I possibly lack?”_

_“For starters, a sense of humor.”_

_“I don’t find that funny, John.”_

_“Exactly.”_

_~*~_

Okay. So maybe playing Cards Against Humanity wasn’t the best game to play with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, but it didn’t stop John and I from laughing so much, and for so long, I almost pee’d my knickers.

  _~*~_

_“These scenarios are preposterous. How can anyone ‘win.’”_

_“That’s the point, Sherlock. It’s why it’s called Cards Against Humanity. It’s socially and politically incorrect.”_

_“I don’t understand. Why is that funny?”_

_“Just play the game.”_

_“Is this a good answer, Molly? I've never seen this word before.”_

“Give it here, Mrs. Hudson. Let’s see.”

_“This game really should come with a dictionary.”_

_“I think so, too, Marilyn. I doubt even Sherlock knows what half this stuff means.”_

_“Why would you say that? I have an excellent grasp and understanding of the English language, along with speaking ten other languages fluently.”_

_“Yeah, but slang and humor isn’t one of them.”_

_“Not funny, John.”_

“Nope. Let’s get you a new card, Mrs. Hudson.”

_“What’s wrong with her card?”_

“Do you really want her using this card, John?”

_“Okay. Not going there.”_

“Right then. New card.”

_“Why does Mrs. Hudson get a new card? And why are you helping her?”_

“Okay, Sherlock. Go ahead, explain the meaning of this word to Mrs. Hudson.”

_“That’s ridiculous. That’s not even a valid…oh. Oh! Mrs. Hudson, use a different card.”_

_“What did her card say, Molly?”_

“I'll explain later, Nan.”

_“I don’t know why you kids are treating us like old ladies. We did grow up in the 1960’s after all. Our generation probably invented half the things you take for granted.”_

_“Mmm, yes, Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, if I recall.”_

_“Glass houses, Sherlock.”_

_“What? Mrs. Hudson’s husband ran a drug cartel.”_

_“Did he really, Martha?”_

_“Oh, it was truly dreadful, Laura.”_

_“Until he was executed and she bought property in central London.”_

_“Sherlock Holmes! I'm a widow using death benefits.”_

“Queaffing! The word was queaf!”

_“Next time, Molly, it’s you, me, Greg, Meena and anyone else but these four.”_

“I agree, John, I really, really do.”

_~*~_

Dinner was magnificent and, as I always dreamt, we lounged in the sitting room, too full to do anything. Sherlock played a soothing lullaby, while I fed Rosie her bottle, rocking her to sleep. John lightly dosed on the sofa, snoring, and Nan, Laura and Mrs. Hudson disappeared…no doubt discussing the 'various strengths of herbal soothers’ as Sherlock implied. I'm not catholic, or religious, and I have no idea how the actual prayer is meant to be said - but in my mind I kept repeating, “Hail Mary, full of grace, thank you.”

I didn’t think this day could have been anymore perfect, until Sherlock and I went to bed. No, it wasn’t mind-blowing sex, although all sex with Sherlock is mind-blowing. This was something far more wonderful, that I still can’t wrap my mind around.

 ~*~

_“Do you think we should marry?”_

“Are you asking?”

_“A question.”_

“I haven't given it much thought, to be honest. Do you want a conversation?”

_“What are your thoughts?”_

“I'd like to know if marriage is something you've been thinking about?”

 _“Yes_.”

“Is it something you want?”

_“Maybe.”_

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

 _“Possibly_.”

“That's sneaky.”

_“I thought clever.”_

“You would.”

_“So?”_

What?

_“Is it yay or nay?”_

“I have to think about it?”

_“What's there to think about?”_

“That's why I have to think about it, so I can know what I'm thinking about.”

_“Makes sense.”_

“I thought so.”

_“What do you think you're going to think about?”_

“About whether or not I want to marry you.”

_“What if I throw in a ring for added incentive?”_

“Depends upon the ring.”

_“In what way?”_

“I don't know. I'll have to see the ring first.”

_“Why?”_

“Because I have to see if it's a worthy incentive.’

 _“Fair enough_.”

“Is there a ring to see?”

_“No. It was hypothetical. What about a promissory note for a ring?’_

‘For a what kind of ring?”

_“That depends.”_

“Upon what?”

_“The intention of the bearer of the promissory note.”_

“Why?”

_“Is the bearer serious to consider the hypothesis?”_

“The bearer considers the hypothesis seriously, which does not extend to the promissory note.”

_‘Why?”_

“Because the promissory note is different than the hypothesis.’

_“A simple yes or no would have done.”_

“I know.”

_“Molly?”_

“Yes?”

_“Would you ever consider marrying me?”_

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

_“Good enough.”_

_~*~_

Sherlock Holmes, you wonderful man, you’ve always had my heart. Always.


	8. Happy New Year, Molly Hooper

Chapter 8

 Happy New Year, Molly Hooper

  _And I'm so sad_  
Like a good book  
I can't put this day back

 

1 January 2016

 

I am a liar. I panicked and fabricated a story so I could leave and not…punch his face? I don’t know what feels worse, the feeling I had before I left, or the feeling I have now. I thought I’d be writing about our New Year’s Eve and how only a week before I'm fairly certain he asked me to marry him. Or, maybe we were negotiating the proposal… That wasn’t a lie, was it? I haven’t convinced myself to see something that wasn’t really there?

I'm not sure what to do with this. I _saw_ it in his eyes. He lit up like a flame, it caught his breath when her seductive sighs echoed through the room. One after another, he pretended not to notice, carefully restraining himself so I wouldn’t see, but his eyes kept darting toward his phone…I assume _eager_ to answer. And, he knew I knew, but chose to say nothing. He probably wanted me to leave…so I did him a favor. I did us both a favor.

  _~*~_

_“Still slicing up cadavers?” SH_

_~*~_

I thought she was dead. Did he know she was alive? Of course he knew…of course. He invented playing dead, after the Opossum, that is. And, she…well, she is an extraordinary mix of beauty and brains, _his equal_ , with that raw appeal that makes him like every other man who’s lost oxygen to his brain. She loves to play games and so does he…and he doesn’t like to lose. He told me that much. This irrational fear inside me says she’ll win, she’ll always win, with her whips, stilettos and orgasmic moan. What the hell am I suppose to do with that? Record my own version of ‘When Harry Met Sally’ just to prove a point? This isn’t a contest and he’s not a prize for the most formidable. I just…I could see it at the time, those years ago, he was taken by her. John said he loved her…what if he still does?

 ~*~

_“You’ve made the papers. Did you see?” SH_

_~*~_

I sometimes wonder why he chose to do this with me. I don’t have any of _those_ qualities he apparently likes and I must seem quite ordinary in comparison. I don’t even want to own leather. As for dominatrix skills, the closest thing I’ve ever done was stab Tom in the hand at Mary and John’s reception. But, that’s only because he was talking and I didn’t mean to stab him. His hand just got in the way of the fork. And, that’s not even the point. How could I stay there, not knowing what to do, or how to graciously surrender to Mata Hari – who was more than likely saved from execution by Mr. _‘I'm So Smart and Cool with my Scarf and Swagger’_ but underneath it all he’s just another science geek with his nerdy chemistry set - while telling myself it’s okay when it’s not. I'm at a loss for how this took me by surprise. That one moment I felt secure and confident, and now I find myself questioning… Am I enough?

_~*~_

_“Molly?” SH_

_~*~_

Okay, maybe I over-reacted and allowed this knee-jerk response to get the better of me. But, that spam text was a fucking God send…a perfectly timed escape to say _‘Something came up…at work. I have to go.’_ I left so fast he didn’t have a chance to ask questions and I didn’t have to explain. And, now, after four hours is he even remotely curious to text. His tête-à-tête with little Miss ‘Sighs-O-Lot’ must be over.

 ~*~

_“Molly, it’s not what you think.” SH_

“What am I thinking?” MH

_“Probably something that’s a bit not good.” SH_

“And you’re saying this because…?” MH

_“John told me.” SH_

“John.” MH

_“Yes. That’s what I said.” SH_

_“Sorry. Apparently, I wasn’t suppose to say that.” SH_

_“What’s so important at the lab? There’s no bodies. I checked.” SH_

“Why are you checking up on bodies?” MH

_“I was checking up on you.” SH_

“Your spies taking the day off?” MH

_“They prefer to be called ‘assets.’” SH_

“Oh, they’re definitely ‘ass’ something.” MH

_“There’s really no need for hostility.” SH_

“Think again.” MH

_“Now you’re being irrational.” SH_

“Done with texting. Bye.” MH

_“Are we having an argument? Shouldn’t we do this in person?” SH_

No.” MH

_“Why?” SH_

“I don’t want to go to prison.” MH

_“You’re angry.” SH_

“I'm angry and you’re avoiding.” MH

_“What would I be avoiding?” SH_

_“Why are you texting me now, Sherlock? I left over four hours ago.” MH_

_“I thought you’d come back.” SH_

“No, you didn’t.” MH

_“I might have.” SH_

“You know why I left…just leave me alone.” MH

_“You’re being ridiculous.” SH_

“Probably. So, it’s good we take some space.” MH

_“How much space?” SH_

“Maybe I'll be less _ridiculous_ next week.” MH

_“Fine.” SH_

“Good.” MH

_“Happy New Year, Molly Hooper.” SH_

_~*~_

_‘Happy new year, Molly Hooper.’_ _‘You’re being irrational, Molly Hooper.’_ _‘You’re being ridiculous, Molly Hooper.’_ You are such a smug, arrogant, sanctimonious, condescending, pompous, duplicitous, patronizing bastard Sherlock Holmes! Oh! Now, you’re calling! It wasn’t enough to insult and belittle me through text, you have to do it with a ring up. God forbid having the last word isn’t enough for you. Call all you want. I am not answering. I won’t. I refuse.

 ~*~

_“Molly, answer your phone.” SH_

_“I know you’re reading this.” SH_

_“If you don’t answer your phone, I'll call your Nan.” SH_

“Ha! She’s in France, with Laura.” MH

_“I'll still call her.” SH_

“Go ahead. Tell her I said ‘Hi.’” MH

_“I'll tell Anderson about us.” SH_

“No you won’t. Is that the best you’ve got?” MH

_“I'll tell Rosie.” SH_

“You wouldn’t dare!” MH

_“Answer your phone.” SH_

“That’s low and spiteful. Even for you.” MH

_“You’re leaving me no choice.” SH_

“This is blackmail.” MH

_“No, it’s leverage.” SH_

“Oh yeah, well, I'll call Mycroft.” MH

_“He’d hang up on you.” SH_

“I'll cry.” MH

_“His cold heart thrives on tears.” SH_

“It must run in the family.” MH

_“Answer your phone. Please.” SH_

“You can’t use the magic word during a fight. It’s not fair.” MH

_“Please.” SH_

“You’re really stooping low. You can have one minute.” MH

~*~

 

*  
*  
*

“You’ve got sixty seconds, Sherlock.”

_“I'm sorry. Please forgive me.”_

“What?”

_“Forgive me, please?”_

_“…”_

_“Don’t cry, I said I'm sorry. Isn’t that what I'm suppose to do?”_

“I…can’t…help it…”

_“All of this because of a text?”_

“It’s not…just a…text. How…how would you…feel if one…of my ex-boyfriend’s…”

“She’s not an ex-girlfriend. She’s a psychopath.”

“Texted me an orgasm.”

_“Who? Tony?”_

“Tom.”

_“Pfft. He’d be too scared.”_

“I wonder why.”

_“I did nothing wrong.”_

“You called him Jim and then said, ‘Oh, sorry, he was the insane, murderous sociopath before you.’”

_“It was a slip of the tongue.”_

“While you took over my bedroom.”

_“We agreed I needed the space.”_

“You terrified him.”

_“Fiancés should know the worst about each other.”_

“Maybe I didn’t want to tell him?”

_“Why not? You’re a magnet for sociopaths.”_

“What?!”

_“Well, you did choose me, after all.”_

“You’re not a sociopath.”

_“You thought so.”_

“No, I didn’t.”

_“Not even a little?”_

“No.”

_“Will you forgive me?”_

_“Molly?”_

“Yes... Will you forgive me?”

_“Always.”_

“Stop being…‘sweet.’ It confuses me.”

_“I’ve been practicing. Come home?”_

“I can’t. There’s an ice storm.”

_“How are we so suppose to have make-up sex if you’re not here?”_

“Just have to wait until next week.”

_“Or, not.”_

“Why?”

_“What are you wearing…”_


	9. Misper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside the pages of Molly's diary, there's a storm brewing at 221B Baker St....

** Misper **

 *

It was only one hour ago  
It was all so different then  
Nothing yet has really sunk in  
Looks like it always did  
This flesh and bone  
Is just the way that we are tied in  
But there's no one home

                                     Peter Gabriel

 

 

 2 January 2016

 

7:49 pm

            It sounded like buckshot pellets, heavy sleet raining down everywhere, bouncing up from the streets hitting windows and building as though it were a war zone. If that wasn’t bad enough, the dense fog starting to roll in made it even more difficult to navigate the unusually empty streets of London. This was the most miserable, goddamn weather in years, Greg Lestrade thought to himself, as the car Sally Donovan was driving a little too fast slid in front of 221B Baker Street.            

           “Sorry, boss,” she said, throwing him a sideways glance, waiting for his reaction, although uncertain what that might be.

           “Kill the lights, would ya? What a fucking mess, Donovan! Goddamn it!” If the fury of his words weren’t enough, Lestrade punched the dashboard so she would know to tread lightly. The weather wasn’t the only treacherous thing tonight.

            “You don’t have to do this. We could---”

            “We. Could. What!?” Lestrade snapped, shivering against the frigid January air, as he stepped outside the car, hanging on to the door to avoid falling on the ice. “There’s no one else. I wouldn’t want anyone else…”

            “Greg…” Sally tried to be comforting, even though she had no idea what to say.

            “You shouldn’t have come, Donovan. There’s no love lost between the two of you, and seeing you will probably make it worse.”

            “Who was going to drive you if I didn’t?” Her own voice was shaky, accentuating the growing trepidation.

            “Yeah, well, I could’ve. I'm not drunk…only had a few beers and that was hours ago during the game. Watch your step over here. The whole sidewalk is ice…fucking weather,” Lestrade muttered under his breath. “Actually, you should probably wait in the car.”

Sally Donovan held tight to the silver BMW as she made her way around to the sidewalk, carefully shuffling one foot before the other on the shimmering pavement, until she reached the safety of the door. “I'm not waiting in the car. You might need help.”

            “Right. God help us all.” At least that’s what Greg hoped, as he sucked in a deep breath before placing a shaky hand on the slightly skewed knocker and tapping it loudly against the door.

            “Want me to ring the bell?”

            “Leave it.”

            “You’re stalling--”

To Greg Lestrade’s relief, the door opened before Sally could finish telling him something he already knew. Standing before them was a slightly hesitant, but mostly kind, Mrs. Hudson - landlady of the now famous Baker Street address or, if he was being more truthful, the occupant that lived in the upstairs flat. She would normally be a welcome sight for his weary eyes, but not tonight. Not this God forsaken night.

          “Greg! Oh my, this is awful weather to be out, don’t you think?”

           “Mrs. Hudson.” Lestrade stepped inside the dimly lit entry hall, pushed his way toward the stairs and, as an after thought, nodded toward his companion. “You remember Sergeant Donovan.”

           “Mmm,” the usually cheery Mrs. Hudson replied curtly.

           “Is he home?”

           “Upstairs. I was just about to take up some tea. We’re playing Cluedo with John and Rosie, but no one really wants to play, except Sherlock.”

           “Oh, right. John’s here. Good.”

           “Here, I'll let you carry the tray…”

           “I'll take it, Mrs. Hudson,” Sally offered, as both she and Mrs. Hudson watch the agitated detective inspector climb the stairs, two at a time.

Stopping at the top landing, Greg Lestrade took a moment to catch his breath or collect his thoughts – maybe both, he mused to himself – before he heard the all too familiar baritone voice of Sherlock Holmes summoning him inside.

          “Lestrade, don’t linger in the hall. You’ve already kept me in suspense long enough and putting John off his game. Have you and Sally come to arrest me for something? It’s your move, John, but I should warn you, it won’t make a difference. Rosie and I already solved the case.”

          “This isn’t a doubles game, Sherlock. You’re cheating.”

          “And, yet, my partner isn’t quite a year old and we’ve closed this case in record time.”

          “How…? She doesn’t speak! She’s not even a toddler!” John Watson laughed at the ridiculousness of his friend’s logic.

          “Just because we’ve out witted the combined brain power of you and Mrs. Hudson doesn’t make it any less true.” Sherlock Holmes quipped, as though this fact were blatantly obvious.

 Lestrade entered the room, taking in the customary setting of two old friends, sitting comfortably in their chairs, along side the warm hearth, pretending to bicker over something far more serious than a board game.

         “How did you…never mind,” he began, but thought better of it. He knew that whatever question he was about to ask would not only _not_ be answered, but completely ignored.

         “Sally!” Sherlock exclaimed, while rolling the dice for his next move. “Long time no see. And, what do I owe the pleasure of you darkening my doorstep? Tea laced with arsenic, perhaps? An unsolvable crime?”

          “I’d lace your tea with a laxative if I thought it’d do any good,” the young Detective mumbled sarcastically.

          “It must be something outside your inadequate skill-set. The weather outside is frightful.” Sherlock couldn’t help but add another barb to foil Sally. It was a long standing, personal feud between the two that no one outside of themselves would ever fully know what happened. Although most suspected, especially knowing Sherlock Holmes, it was probably something a bit ‘not good.’

          “While the fire inside’s delightful,” John added, offering a small grin of smug satisfaction at his own cleverness.

           “Alright, knock it off. Both of you.” The last thing Greg Lestrade wanted was Sally Donovan and Sherlock Holmes going twelve rounds.

           “What’s the matter, Lestrade? You look absolutely forlorn.” Sherlock continued to focus on the game, gesturing to Watson. Baby Watson. “Your move.”

           “Just…stop. Okay?” Greg took a long pause before continuing. He’d come to Baker Street many times throughout the past ten years, but in all that time never did he imagine he’d show up like this…having to do this. He hadn’t nearly begun to curse this night enough.

           “Sherlock…when did you last speak with Molly?”

           “Excuse me?” Sherlock paused, slowly turning to face the Detective Inspector.

           “Molly. When did you last speak with her?”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, giving his full attention to Lestrade. “This morning at 6:17, 8:03 and then again at 10:35. Why? And, before you answer, Greg, think very, very carefully about what you’re going to say next.”

           “I'm sorry, Sherlock…she’s…Molly’s missing. There’s been an accident…we don’t know where she is.”

In two long strides, the handsome detective made his way to stand before his friend, the police inspector. “Continue,” Sherlock stated calmly, his normally bright blue-green eyes turned a cold, steel grey making him appear terrifyingly imposing. “Don’t be boring.”

          “Her car was found on a dirt lane between her house and Eastbourne. But, it doesn’t make sense she’d take that route, when the main highway was---”

          “Please do leave the thinking to me.”

          “Some kids saw it burning. By the time the fire department arrived, there wasn’t much left but the frame. But, there was no body. There’s been a search of the surrounding woods and neighboring farms, until it got too dark. They’ll pick it up again in the morning. For now, she’s listed as a MISPER.”

          “Misper?” John asked.

          “Missing Person.”

          “What time? Where’s the car?” Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and began typing furiously.

          “About 2:30 this afternoon--”

          “And, you’re just now telling me?”

          “We didn’t know, Sherlock. Greg just got the call before we came over.” Sally offered hesitantly.

          “Forensics garage in Eastbourne. They’re good, Sherlock…and still going over it. They do know an accelerant of some sort was used, but I don’t have any more information. Not yet.”

Sherlock gave Lestrade one last stare before heading down the hall that led to his bedroom. “John, you’ll need to pack a bag for Rosie. She’s coming with us. Mrs. Hudson!”

Within a few minutes he returned with a suitcase, and shouted once more for his landlady, who appeared at the same time. “Mrs. Hudson!”

          “For heaven’s sake, Sherlock. I was getting some biscuits,” Martha Hudson replied, setting a tray of snacks on the table.

          “Forget the biscuits. You’ll need your get-a-way bag.”

          “I don’t have a get-a-way bag,” she scoffed, confused at Sherlock’s unusual command.

          “Why not? It would seem rather useful considering your history.”

          “Sherlock Holmes. If you’re going to yell at me…”

          “Molly is missing, Mrs. Hudson, and the Yard is counting on us to find her.”


	10. Where Are You?

Chapter 10:  

Where Are You?

*

_Dark angels follow me_   
_Over a godless sea_   
_Mountains of endless falling,_   
_For all my days remaining_

_  
_                              

30 January 2016

Molly,

It’s been four weeks, twenty eight days, five Saturdays, and six hundred seventy two hours since you’ve gone missing. No signs or trace. It’s like you’ve been plucked from the earth and anything that would help us, help Sherlock, find you disappeared with the smoke from your blazing car.

How can something like this happen? How?

I didn’t want to go back to blogging. Not after Mary. I’m still not but, for now, this helps. One day we’ll all know what happened…and you’ll know we never stopped looking.

Greg came to Baker St and told us you were missing. Within thirty minutes we were on our way to East Dean. All of us, Mrs. Hudson, Rosie and me, and Sherlock. Since that time, we’ve been staying here, at your house, with your Nan and Laura. She’s not doing well, your nan, but it’s understandable. Of course it is. With every passing day, especially when she listens to the gossip of the town or watches the news, she loses hope. But, she's doing her best to stay positive, to believe in Sherlock. We all are.

He’s never said anything, not much at least, but I can tell Sherlock thought he would have solved this case by now and that you’d be back with us, back at work, with life going on. How can you still be missing? Where are you?

When we first came down here, Sherlock asked (told) Anderson to assist with lab work. Can you believe it? These two working together. Actually, Anderson’s been good and found evidence that Scotland Yard missed. It’s not much, but it’s all we’ve had to go on.

DI Taylor was on holiday in Lisbon when you went missing, but Lestrade got copies of all the autopsies and cases you’ve worked on since you started here, but so far nothing stands out. Sherlock doesn’t trust him, thinks he’s incompetent, but then Sherlock thinks everyone is incompetent. Lestrade and even Mycroft have had to sort a few things out because of it. Everyone’s on edge.

A picture of you was blasted on the news and in all the papers. Lots of calls came in but most of them prank. Sherlock didn’t think any real leads would come in, but said it was important because of the statement it made. He’s communicating with whoever took you. Mycroft has agents on the case, too. His spies are everywhere, so are some of Sherlock’s homeless network. Nothing is making sense and the clues aren’t adding up. This has turned into a game of cat and mouse and waiting around for someone to make a move is wearing on everyone.

Sherlock’s taken to locking himself away in the cottage close to the stables, barely eating, not talking to anyone, so you can imagine Mrs. Hudson and I were starting to think the worst…that maybe he started using again. The last thing we needed was him falling apart and your nan seeing this side of him. He’s not and is keeping it together. Every piece of evidence he’s collected is all over the walls, including traffic photos and everything you’ve been doing since you started here in October. He can’t find the connection and that’s what’s most troubling.

The life between you two is private and it’s not my place to interfere, but he said something, well, he let something slip…said this was his fault and when I pushed him about it, he eventually told me about the argument… _misunderstanding_ about Irene Adler.

 ~*~

“So, what did she want? Irene Adler.”

_“She saw a picture of Molly and I in the paper, with some sensational headline. Wanted to know if congratulations were in order.”_

“Do you think she had something to do with this? Jealousy, maybe?”

_“Don’t be ridiculous.”_

“Sherlock.”

_“The Woman isn’t a kidnapper. She’s a collector of information and mischief maker. If Mycroft had any idea how to handle her, he would have gained one of the most useful assets in MI-6 history.”_

“He let her go. Thought she was dead.”

_“His loss.”_

“Is that why you saved her? Kept it a secret?”

_“She is a dominatrix, John. Skilled in games and power plays. What does that tell you?”_

“I have no idea. I don’t know anything when it comes to you two.”

_“We have an agreement.”_

“Agreement. So, you saved her…and now she owes you? Is that the only reason? I thought...I used to think, um, you loved her.”

_“She nearly brought down England. It’s impossible to not appreciate her…talents.”_

“Did you two ever…you know?”

_“What?”_

“Don’t play stupid.”

_“…”_

“So, you did. Jesus. And, Molly knows…she thought…”

_“What?_

“That you have something going on…”

_“No.”_

“She’s not blind, Sherlock.”

_“Look, I told her, it’s not what she thought.”_

“Why have you kept it? The Woman’s…sound.”

_“Oh, for God’s sake! You keep going on about it as though it has meaning, when it’s her calling card. Why wouldn’t I keep it? I’ve told you before, I don’t text back.”_

“Except it did! She meant something to you…you moped around when you thought she was dead, composed music in her name! Molly sees through your bullshit better than anyone…and if you still have feelings for Irene…”

_“Why do you insist on this incessant ---”_

“Nope. You don’t get to rationalize this. I was there, remember? Molly did not want to say those words to you and it’s not hard to guess why. Now, you did what you had to do to save her life and chose to walk away, only to pull her back in. You did that, not her. She left and wasn’t coming back, mate. So, if you have any lingering thoughts about the ‘Woman’, then you need to take care of it. Because the woman you have now won’t play your games.”

_“That’s rich coming from you, John.”_

“Don’t…I’m not doing this with you.”

_“There’s nothing ‘going on.’”_

“I hope for your sake you get the chance to tell her.”

~*~

 

Wherever you are, Molly, what's ever happening, don't give up. Don't give up on Sherlock. He needs you...we all do.

JW

 

 

 


	11. It's Probably Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search continues...

Chapter 11

It's Probably Me

*

_If there’s one guy, just one guy,_

_Who’d lay down his life for you and die_

_I hate to say it, I have to say it,_

_It’s probably me._

_*_

 

 

06 February 2016

10:58 pm

 

~*~

“Hello, Sherlock.”

_“Molly?”_

“I’ve been waiting for you for such a long time.”

_“Where have you…where…where are we?”_

“I'm so happy to see you.”

_“You’re gone. I…I can’t find you.”_

“I'm here now. It’s okay.”

_“Just…just tell me where you are.”_

“There’s nothing you could have done.”

_“What do you mean?”_

“It’s peaceful here…I’ve seen my dad and mum, they’ve said not to be afraid…”

_“No…no, no, no, no, no! Do you hear me? Do not leave!”_

“I have loved my time with you. All of it. I wouldn’t do anything differently. I’d always choose you.”

_“Please, Molly, no…not now.”_

“I used to write about you…when I thought I didn’t know. Everything’s so clear to me now. I hope you won’t laugh.”

_“I don’t know what you mean.”_

“I want to come home, but it’s so peaceful here…I want to stop hurting.”

_“Oh, God, Molly…please tell me how to find you. I'll come for you, I promise.”_

“I don’t think they’ll let you.”

_“Who won’t let me?”_

“You know, the ones I wrote about.”

_“No, I don’t know.”_

“There isn’t much time, Sherlock. I can’t do this alone, you have to find me now. You need to wake up now.”

_“Wait!”_

“I love you.”

_“Don’t leave. Come back! Molly! Molly!”_

~*~

 

 

07 February 2016

00:31

     It felt just like it did that one time when he was seventeen and Mycroft found him, barely alive, barely breathing. He was out of his body, drifting further and further away from the fray of life, that when he looked back and saw what he was leaving behind, he would have chosen the peace. The quietude from the noise, away from the cruelty of those who were too ignorant to understand, or those who would only befriend him for what they could get. There were always vultures at his back and the only thing that had changed through the years were the motives of those who would dog his footsteps. And, whose footsteps he would eventually shadow and hunt. Predators are always arrogant and sadistically narcissistic…they never stop to think that one day they might become the prey.

     Sherlock’s body involuntarily pitched off the bed as his lungs violently expanded like the billows of an accordion. It was the breath of life…he was alive, warm inside the cottage where he collapsed, exhausted and somnolent, among the documents and folders strewn across the bed and pictures of her tacked upon the walls. She was everywhere. In the papers, on the news, and even the paparazzi that camped outside the gates of her home would never let him forget he was failing her. She would forever haunt his mind.

     He had spent the day at Sherrinford, determined to visit his sister, only this time he hoped, maybe, she might notice something was different. Maybe she would speak, offer up a riddle that could help. He never considered that he might one day ask something from her…never wanted to prey on her like those who used her, but he was not above setting aside his pride if the moment arose. But, it never came and neither would she allow him to play. Instead, before he had the chance to remove the gifted Stradivarius from it’s case, she began to bow a heartbreaking tune he immediately recognized. It wasn’t her typical choice and to be honest, the ease of this piece surprised him. Her preference was Bach, or her own creations, but Pietro Mascagni? Why the Intermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana? It was a beautiful interlude from a tragic opera and he couldn’t help but wonder if that was what she wanted him to know. There would be no happy reunion. Just as Stanuzza grieved over Turridu’s body, he would one day grieve over Molly’s.

     When Eurus was done, she set her violin down and turned her back on him. Their family time had come to an end and Sherlock began the long journey home, empty handed, and hope vanished. Thankfully, Mycroft arranged the helicopter to London…a convenience for him to stop at Baker Street for clean clothes, and to find an unexpected, single white rose from The Woman lying upon his pillow. Her signature card was attached with one letter, or more specifically, a symbol. She loved her games, but ancient Enochian? Even this was a little too cryptic for her. He was well-versed in John Dee’s work, after all, he was a graduate chemist and quite prolific in his own brand of alchemy. But, he’d have to work to understand her message and grabbed his copy of The Five Books of Magic off the shelf.

     He looked around the room, finding his last moments here frozen in time. The snack tray was where Mrs. Hudson set it on the table, Cluedo laid open on the pouf between the two chairs where he and John sat bickering over Rosie’s credibility as a game partner and, now, he stood in the same place where Lestrade gave him the news that Molly was missing. When he left that night, he never dreamt he wouldn’t be able to find her, that she might be lost to him forever. He scoffed at the storm of emotions rising within him and turned to leave…closing the door behind him, not sure when, or if, he’d ever return.

     His breathing regained, but the pounding in his head wouldn’t stop, until he realized it wasn’t him, but instead came from the door. He ran a reckless hand through his thick scruff of dark curls and stumbled across the room – still feeling disoriented from his dream. No, he corrected his thoughts, it was too vivid for a dream. It was a nightmare, the fabric of his worst fears harrying his footsteps, just like the predator who took Molly and mocked him.

      “Marilyn?” Sherlock was bone weary and the last thing he wanted to was to provide something to someone he couldn’t give to himself. That’s not who he was…she would be better off seeking John’s company, or Mrs. Hudson. Unless she had news…but how could she? How could she know something before him?

     “I heard you shouting,” Marilyn Wilcox answered softly, pushing her way into the room. “I was up at the house, couldn’t sleep and saw you come in. I wasn’t going to bother you until morning, but then…I was outside and heard…I thought…maybe you’d gotten some news. If you have, you need to tell me now.”

     “No…there’s been nothing,” Sherlock sighed. He was more patient with her than anyone and didn’t want to be rude, but he couldn’t do this now. He couldn’t look into her eyes and see the disappointment…that he’d let her down, letting everyone down.

     “I heard you, Sherlock---”

     “I'm sorry, I fell asleep…it was just a dream.”

     “It sounded like a nightmare…I have them too,” Marilyn paused, her eyes fixed as though looking far away into something only she could see. “She’s visited me a few times, Marg…Molly. When it first happened, I thought she was…but it felt different, it wasn’t like when Peter died. He would visit, come to me in my dreams, and sometimes I swear I could see him out of the corner of my eye. Standing in sunlight, shining like a specter for all to see… Do you believe, Sherlock, that the dead speak with us?”

     “I don’t know…There’s always the inexplicable--”

     “Of course,” Marilyn offered a sad smile as she walked around the room, her hand gently grazing the folders on the table, her sight captured by the photographs stuck to the wall. “I’ve seen things like this in the movies, on the telly, but I never thought I’d… This must be hard for you, I'm sorry.”

     “I didn’t want you to see this. Thought it might be too…difficult,” Sherlock closed the door and removed his coat, tossing it on the corner chair, his eyes tracking Marilyn’s movements through the evidence.

     “No. The difficult part already happened, or has yet to happen. This gives me hope.”

     “Marilyn…what does she say to you? Molly…in your dreams.”

     “The first time she said she was afraid, but wasn’t alone and has a dog named Red--”

     “A dog named Red? You’re sure?” Sherlock interrupted, his mind beginning to reel at what seemed like a bizarre coincidence.

     “You know how dreams are…they don’t always make sense,” she said, offering an apologetic look. “The second time was even more strange. It was a dark room, I could barely see, and it was very cold. I thought I saw Molly cradling a baby, but when I looked closer it was her arm…I think she broke her arm. She never said. I asked her where she was, but all she talked about is when I caught her…”

     “What?”

     “It’s a silly memory, I don’t know why I’d dream about it,” Marilyn rebuked herself, attempting to brush off her comment.

     “What did she say?”

    “Oh, it was just nonsense, Sherlock.”

    “Tell me,” he demanded, his voice low and almost threatening…a trait Marilyn wasn’t used to experiencing.

     “I caught her once, she and her best friend…Sarah Brigham…sweet Sarah. You know how young girls can be, they were almost inseparable. It was nothing awful, but at the time I was starting to worry. Robert, Molly’s father, was gone most of the time, and she was changing so fast… She and Sarah were smoking pot and I was concerned she’d…experiment with other things. I restricted her for a month and she threw a fit the likes I’d never seen. In hindsight, maybe it was a bit harsh. But, there were the boys, noticing her, she was noticing them too and had this knack of always picking the worst of the lot. She was very trusting and naïve back then.”

     “She’s still trusting and naïve,” Sherlock sighed, remembering all to clearly Molly’s choice in men.

     “She always wants to see the best in people. She saw the best in you, didn’t she?”

     “I'm sorry?”

     “Don’t look so surprised. I might be a simple woman, but you’re not the only one who can see things. You broke her heart and she still loved you. And, then you came down here, acting so full of yourself, but underneath it all, your heart was just as broken. It’s a good thing you two sorted it out otherwise you would have left me no choice but to interfere.”

     “You are anything but a simple woman, Marilyn Wilcox.”

     “I'll take that as a compliment, but there was a reason I wanted to see you,” Marilyn pushed away a pile of papers on the bed, sat along side Sherlock and passed him a large, thick envelope. “I needed to give you this.”

     “What is it?”

     “Documents. Legal paper work. It’s been almost six weeks and…I believe you, Sherlock. I believe you’re doing everything you can to find her. But, we might have to face…you may not find her---”

     “She’s not dead. I’d know if she was,” he snapped, a bit too forcefully.

     “Still, there’s things you have to take care of…decisions to be made.”

     “What…what do you mean?”

     “Her estate. Aside from my home, some property, along with provisions for Rosie’s upbringing and education, all this belongs to you.”

     “What!?”

     “I'm taking care of things for now. There’s a firm with the solicitors office that handles the monthlies, taxes, and other miscellaneous expenditures. The solicitor will go over everything else with you…the accounts and investments.”

     “I…I don’t understand…”

     “I'm sure she would have told you, eventually. You don’t have to do anything right now. I'll put the envelope on the table…it’s just copies…take your time.”

     “I'm not doing this.” His voice was dangerously soft, as he grabbed his coat from the chair, making his way to leave, although uncertain as to where he’d go.

     “Sherlock…I wanted to ask, earlier, were…were you dreaming of her?”

     “Yes,” he answered, pausing hesitantly at the door.

     “Do you mind me asking…what did she say?”

     “It’s like you said, nothing made sense. I kept asking where she was…she couldn’t say, said something about ‘the ones she wrote about’ wouldn’t let her. She said she wrote about me and hoped I wouldn’t laugh. She, um, saw her parents…they told her not to be afraid, but that she was running out of time. I had to find her now and told me to wake up.

     “I keep going over everything…her notes and reports, the autopsies she’s done, where she’s been, who she’s been with. I have ran test after test on her clothes and shoes…everything’s been cleaned. I’ve read every text and email she’s sent, every word she’s written and there is nothing. I believe in premonition, intuition, heightened sensory observation, neuro-linguistic programming; there are proven cases of telepathy and telekinesis, I even witnessed a man who was a fairly accurate remote viewer. I do believe in the inexplicable, but if that’s what’s happening, then why won’t she tell us where she is? How to find her?”

     “Maybe she is and we’re not listening,” Marilyn soothed. “I don’t doubt you, Sherlock, but I can’t believe Molly didn’t write a few interesting things about you in her diary.”

     “What!?”

     “Journal, whatever they’re called these days.”

     “Molly keeps a diary?”

     “She has since she’s been fourteen years old, after her friend, Sarah, died…it devastated Molly. The attic is filled with boxes of her old diaries. You didn’t know?”

     “I knew she wrote a lot…how she holds her right arm and hand, the bend in her fingers and wrist. Sometimes her shoulders, they pronate when, um, she’s done too many autopsies. And, she still does a few surgeries rounds a month, although I have no idea why. But, she writes…reports, findings...she’s always writing.”

     “You didn’t find them in her room?”

     “Me. Not find them. If there were journals in her room, I would have found them. Maybe… they’re at her house in London? We should go--”

     “No,” she interrupted firmly. “I mean, of course it’s a possibility, but so unlikely. Not if she’s staying here for days at a time. She’d bring it with her, wouldn’t she.”

     “Oh, Marilyn!” Sherlock took the startled woman’s face between his hands and planted a grateful kiss on her forehead. “I think we have some diary sleuthing to do!”

 


	12. Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 12:

Sherlock Holmes

*

_You left me, sweet, two legacies, A legacy of love,_

_A Heavenly Father would content, had he the offer of;_

_You left me boundaries of pain, Capacious as the sea,_

_Between eternity and time, Your consciousness and me_

_Emily  Dickinson_

_*_

 

 

 

07 February 2016

6:15 am

     How could he have missed it? Not seen this about her. A part of Sherlock had become accustom to being surprised by Molly, the predictability of her unpredictable nature. Just when he thought he knew something, could hold it in his hand as a constant, she’d change. She’d switch up the rules she didn’t know she was making. He would always catch up quickly, but this time he’d been dangerously too slow. Somewhere she was suffering, wondering if she was forgotten and slowly fading into memory of those she loved. How would he ever make this up to her? How could she forgive him…

     Once he knew what he was looking for, it took Sherlock less than ten minutes to find Molly’s diaries. Two of them, hidden in plain sight, on the bookshelf in the library, masked and disguised by the other books where no one would pay attention. She probably moved them only when necessity dictated. Oh, she was clever…a habit she undoubtedly learned a very long time ago to keep her secrets safe from the prying eyes of a Nan who worried too much.

     If he hadn’t silently chastised himself enough for being a blind idiot, the endless stream of self-criticism continued as he read her entries…page after page, her carefully written words floated into his mind, sinking into places he thought impossible to touch. Until now, he had no idea just how close he came to becoming a part of her history, instead of her present. Their present…

     John was right…she left and was never coming back. He felt it too, could see the signs long before that phone call, but chose to dismiss the eventuality of their parting. He knew the special words to draw her in, coax her back into his world, his life - words that had become the never-failing elixir to cut through any protests, no matter how great, she might have: _I need you._ But, there was that one time those words failed, and new words were asked of him. And, when the moment came, he trusted his resolve to do what was necessary – to keep her distant and his life uncomplicated from entanglement. Except he couldn’t let go. But, unlike him, Molly had been preparing herself for a very long time, bargaining for a solution more permanent and far from his life. Their ending would come absent of tears and emotional outbursts, but instead the thunderous crash of her whispered good-bye. All because of him.

     Sentiment. He never intended for it to have dominion over him, to carry weight in decisions where logic and reason were better left to prevail. But, what is sentiment if not an aspect of reason that brings one to logical conclusions? Is it not a more refined perspective by the inclination toward emotional intelligence? He would never be able to escape the words she wrote, a unique combination philosophy, winsome, and heart, with the desire to transcend. How hard she worked to seek balance, to be his friend, and take roads most people never dared to tread. Maybe she was the true genius, graciously accepting her foibles, where others would protest, blame or learn to justify their eked out existence.

     Shame washed over him as he read her thoughts on unrequited love, and how she sought to find meaning through her pain. Cases, or the needle, was his choice of escape, while the pen was hers. So who was the wiser here? All those years, she rarely showed her hand, or the full depth of her devotion and quietly kept her distance. Painstakingly adjusting her behavior so he wouldn’t know, hiding herself, or appeasing him because it made him happy. How had he not seen this, or was she really just that good at disguising herself?

     They kissed once, before he left. It was an impulsive move, a consequence of fear and excitement over all that had taken place…all that was being left behind, and never intended the way it happened. His gesture was one of gratitude, a simple kiss upon her cheek before walking out the door and into the arduous task of taking down Moriarty’s network. She didn’t expect it and turned her head, causing his lips to brush against hers, where they lingered a little longer than expected. He remembered they didn’t move, both caught off guard like a deer in headlights, lips touching, the air between them charged, his heart beating like thunder, pounding furiously against his chest. He said her name and kissed her again, stealing her breath, wanting so badly to make every inch of her body his. Without speaking, he broke their bond, walked out of her life and didn’t look back.

      For two years he gave her nothing. No calls, no cloak and dagger emails, or discrete messages sent through persons unknown. If he had asked, Mycroft would have extended some courtesy in her direction. After all, he was the one who surreptitiously orchestrated their initial meeting and continued to encourage their association from the shadows. But, he never asked about her, not even when he returned. Never wanted attention drawn to her importance in his life. So, was it really that surprising she moved on, or didn’t trust her memory of him? The expectation that she would be waiting, just how he left her, was ludicrous and, yet, it’s what he chose to believe. Didn’t that kiss prove something?

     Endless months were spent silently mocking the charade called her engagement; that she was once again blinded by the idea of love, attaching herself with someone who wasn’t deserving, or would use her…only to read that wasn’t the case. She had long ago accepted the idea _he_ would never want her, and would sacrifice her happiness so not to interfere with his. But, if she had given him a sign, anything that would have let him know she still cared, he _might_ have tried something different, instead of covertly sabotaging her future, manipulating circumstances that would eventually drive away the imposter in her life, and further the divide between them. Then again, he remembered, how would she have know any of this? He never told her…never gave her anything she could count on or trust.

     He wanted to throw her diary against the wall, but each word pulled him in deeper, where he couldn’t help but guffaw at her Austen-style, righteous indignation over his brash actions, although he thought it quite good, even if he disagreed that he was taciturn. His heart sank that she questioned her place in his life, that she wouldn’t be enough or he would see her as ordinary, and the heart of another would eventually be chosen over hers. How could she not know she was the love of his life…his greatest weakness? He carelessly believed there would be time to explain, time to make her understand and see things his way. There would always be time and she would always be there…

     Only she’s not.

     She’s gone.

     And somewhere in these pages he begged her to give him the missing pieces.

     He would spend the rest of his life making amends for his thoughtlessness, righting wrong doings, and explaining the hidden. But, now, she needed him sharp and clear, hawk-eyed on everything everyone else missed.

     She needed him to be Sherlock Holmes.

     A quick text was sent to his brother to set things in motion, along with one last call. “Lestrade,” he said, sure and confident, “I need you and your best men within the hour. We’re going to find Molly today.”

 


	13. The Field Where She Died

Chapter 13

*

The Field Where She Died

*

 _I did not believe because I could not see_  
_Though you came to me in the night_  
_When the dawn seemed forever lost_  
_You showed me your love in the light of the stars._

_Dante's Prayer_

 

 

07 February 2016

9:28 AM

 

     _Once upon a time there was a beautiful young maiden, fair of mind and spirit, bursting with inquisitiveness and a vivacity for life. She was filled with laughter and within her held the innocence saved for those of an unsullied heart. She dearly loved wandering the meadows of wild, rainbow colored grasses, watching the fox and her kits jump and play. There were the badgers, too, rarely seen outside of their setts, but they had become quite used to her kindness, and the occasional treats she would leave, which left them at ease to wander in her presence._

_The lovely girl would pick flowers, or lay on her back amongst the clover and wild alyssum, sun shining streams of yellow gold upon her skin, and command the clouds to change shape by the will of her thoughts. And, when they bowed to her desires, she couldn’t help but giggle at her clever artistry._

_Then, one day, she met a man - tall, dark hair and handsome beyond what words were able to describe. His eyes sparkled like the starlight reflecting off the pale blue pond where she would sometimes swim with the water sprites. He was no simple man, but an immortal like herself. What she didn’t know is that he’d been watching her for a very long time; enchanted by her beauty, and the blinding innocence of her kind heart. As time went on, the flame of unbridled love burned within him so fierce, he determinedly stepped out of the shadows to make her acquaintance._

_Over a month of suns and moons, he charmed and delighted her, wooed her with his love, until, finally, she surrendered and became his. Taking his hand, she left the meadowlands, creatures and water sprites, to follow her beloved to his Kingdom. With each step, the sunlight fading at her back, she moved into the world of shadows, descending far past the point of return, never to see the meadowlands again._

~***~

*

    The morning sun cast a long silhouette over Sherlock Holmes’s tall frame as he walked slowly through the field, the frozen grass and stray corn stalks crunched under his boots, leaving track marks in his wake. The frosty cold nipped at his skin and puffs of white vapor trailed before him as he plodded, focused and determined, toward the abandoned farm house. He could hear the barking of dogs somewhere behind him, eager to be released from their leads, and in the distance the faint whirling sound of a helicopter...no doubt bringing Mycroft. But, more than anything, his thoughts were focused on one thing, one person, and he hoped to hell she was still alive.

        “Sherlock!” John Watson shouted, running to catch up with the detective, panting and struggling for breath.

        “I hope you brought your doctor’s bag,” Sherlock said distractedly, sidestepping a deep puddle of half frozen ice.

        “My what? I don’t...Sherlock, what are we doing here?”

        “Finding Molly. I thought that was obvious.”

        “I mean here, the farmhouse. It’s been searched, a lot, even Mycroft’s men found nothing.”

        “Apparently, they didn’t know what they were looking for,” Sherlock responded matter-of-factly, quickening his steps toward the delapidated building.

        “What’s that?”

        “Entrance to the underworld.”

        “We’re looking for a mystical doorway…?”

         “Something like that.”

     Reaching the broken stairs of the house, Sherlock grabbed hold of a gray, weather post and made an easy leap over the steps to the porch. To his surprise, a large red and black German Shepherd jumped to his side, whining and sniffing the floor to catch a scent. The dog padded frantically over the length of the porch, then focused on the door, scratching at it’s frame, eager to get inside. She wore a blue pack with a bold, white medical symbol on it’s pocket, leaving Sherlock grateful that someone remembered to bring necessary supplies, even if it was the dog.

     “Good girl,” he said, rubbing the dog’s head, and in one swift, powerful motion kicked the door off it’s frame. He made his way into the house, placing one careful step after another on the soft, creaky floor boards. “Tell me, John,” he said more to himself than his friend, “why would an abandoned house need electricity?”

     “Watch out!” John shouted, cautioning Sherlock of the large hole in the floor ahead of him. He reached inside his coat pocket, and pulled out the small flashlight, casting it over the darkened room, startling a small flock of birds nesting in the falling ceiling above him. “Jesus, this place is a death trap.”

        “Literally,” Sherlock answered somberly, brushing the icy cobwebs away from his face.

      Startled by the thud of loud footsteps coming from another room, both Sherlock and John slowly rounded the corner to find Greg Lestrade. “There’s a back way in…much easier. Christ,” he moaned, snaking a hand through his graying hair, revolted by the garbage and dead animal carcasses scattered across the floors. “I’ve seen better dumps in London. How is this place still standing…”

      “There’s a basement, coal cellar,” Sherlock said, turning up the collar on his Belstaff against the bitter chill blowing through the house, walking away from John and Lestrade. “The outside access caved in, which means there’s a door somewhere inside.”

          “You think Molly’s in the coal cellar?” Lestrade asked, even more confused than when Sherlock woke him at 6:30 this morning, informing him they would find Molly before noon.

      “No, I don’t,” he answered distantly, pushing against walls and doorways as he made his way through the other rooms. “Come here, girl,” Sherlock called to the dog, kneeling down so she could smell a sheet a paper he pulled from a plastic bag. The excited dog took off down a long, dark hallway, sniffing and scratching at walls. “John, Lestrade” he added softly, “we’re being watched.”

           “What?” John asked, carefully following Sherlock down the hall.

Looking around for something to stand on, Sherlock found a rusting bucket and pulled back a sheet of rotting wallpaper to retrieve a camera, no larger than the size of a pen.

           “Surveillance issued,” he said, casting a knowing look in Lestrade’s direction, while turning the small camera in his fingers, recognizing it’s normal use in hostage situations.

           “How---”

           “Glare from the flashlight caught the lens…”

     The three men continued down the hallway investigating what looked to be former bedrooms as they went. Sherlock noticed how the windows had been carefully boarded, the dull luster nicks around the old fashioned keyholes, and that these rooms were absolutely pristine compared to the rest of the house. “Holding cells,” he remarked, more as a comment to himself than anyone else.

            “What?” Lestrade asked, although Sherlock ignored him.

            “Nothing.”

     Tara, the red German Shepherd, began a frenzied barking and was found standing outside a tiny room at the end of the hall. Far too small for a bedroom or nursery, Sherlock thought it must have once been used as a walk-in airing cupboard or utility washroom, although plumbing no longer existed. It was dark and had a putrid smell similar to that of Mrs. Hudson’s basement flat. He could understand why this room would be overlooked, not just for it’s size, but due to the shelves and hooks covering the narrow walls. He was certain Tara had found the entry way to finding Molly.

     “Lights, shine them in here,” Sherlock demanded as his hands madly covered the walls and shelves, looking for a spring, or latch, that might open a secret door. But, it wasn’t a latch or spring he found. Instead, his foot slipped on the damp floor under the lowest shelf, kicking the baseboard, as he reached up and felt along the highest hooks. The back wall gave way, as a glimmer of light shed through the crack of its opening. Pushing the wall further, it banked up against a stone wall and there Sherlock saw at least three flights of steps going downward into a dark abyss.

           “Jesus,” John gasped.

Lestrade stood visibly shaken. His radio crackled with static as he pressed the side button, ready to bark out his orders. “Donovan.”

          “Go ahead, boss.” The radio crackled back.

          “Make sure the ambulance and medics are ready up at the house. I need a rescue team up here, now.”

          “Did you find her? Did you find Molly?”

          “I might be out of radio contact, so be careful walking through the house. And get those medics here.”

     Sherlock began descending the stairs, with John and Lestrade following. The wood groaned under their heavy steps, but was otherwise in good shape. Someone had been maintaining them, he thought to himself.

          “Where are you?” Donovan asked, her voice already breaking up.

          “Back of the house, down the hall. Do it now!”

    Tara began to bark again and ran past Sherlock, almost knocking him down the stairs. He followed in suit, jumping the shallow creaky steps to keep up - the beam of his flashlight bouncing off the damp, stone walls.

            Finally reaching the floor, Sherlock stepped forward, and silently gasped as a rat scampered over his shoe. He shone the light in the direction of Tara’s barking, revealing a corridor about eight meters long. His heart raced as he ran toward the metal door ahead, knowing he’d find Molly, but feeling equally terrified at the idea she might be dead.

            Sherlock wasn’t surprised to find the door locked, but he pushed and tugged out of desperation, calling Molly’s name with each labored pound against the door. He was met with silence. Taking the small cloth bound toolkit from his pocket, he grabbed two long metal instruments and quickly began his attempt at picking the lock.

          "Oh, God!” Sherlock yelled, the sinuous fingers of frustration clawing at him, “this is taking too long!” His hands were visibly shaking as he continued to pick at the lock, with Tara laying at his feet, whining and trying to dig away at the bottom of the door. John held the flashlight steady, giving Sherlock the light needed.

The static crackled from Lestrade’s radio echoed in the corridor as he called to Sally Donovan. “Donovan, do you read me?”

          “You’re clear, go ahead sir.”

          “Send someone down with a torch set, crow bars, whatever we got. Now!”

Within minutes, an overhead light shown down on the three men, and radios squawking in the distance could be heard.

          “Clear! Clear! Sir, can you hear me? Sir!” The booming voice from an unknown officer echoed through the long hall.

      Lestrade looked around him, the dark space now illuminated with lights plumbed into the heavily beamed ceiling. “What the hell is this place?” He murmured, then shouted back to officers calling out for him. “Down here!”

      Sherlock ran forward to meet the officer carrying the acetylene torch, took it from him, and rushed back to the door. Covering his eyes with goggles, he lit the flame and heated the metal surrounding the lock until it glowed red and gave way.

          “Get back, everyone just get back…give ‘im room,” Lestrade barked, holding Tara by her collar, as he watched Sherlock remove the eye gear, and tossed the torch off to the side.

      Sherlock carefully used his body weight to pushed against the heavy door, metal grinding against metal, calling out for Molly. He pointed his flashlight into the room, while his hand searched the inside wall for a light switch. Surprised he found one, he turned the knob and a dim bulb hissed and glowed overhead.

      The room wasn’t what he expected. It was large, concrete walls and floors, and it looked like two other smaller rooms were built off to the left side. It was cold and smelled of must, decaying foliage and rusting metal. The floor was littered with empty water bottles and bloated cans of food, no doubt incubating with botulism, along with a few rat carcasses rotting in the corner. It was a sturdy built bomb shelter from the 1940’s, and fairly well maintained from it’s frequent use.

      Looking around to the opposite side of the door, he spotted her, not moving, and lying on something that passed for a mattress. “Molly…Molly!” He shouted, although his voice sounded barely above a whisper. In two long strides, he was kneeling down beside her, turning her over, carefully shaking her shoulders and calling her name – anything to get a response. “John, I…I can’t tell…is she alive? I can’t get a pulse. What do I do? John!”

      John knelt down on the opposite side of Molly, holding his breath, and placed two fingers along her neck to find a pulse. “She’s alive. Oh my god, she’s alive! Sherlock, she’s alive.”

          “Where’s that medic and gurney!? Now, damn it!” Lestrade yelled out the door.

      Sherlock fell over Molly, pulling her in close to him, rocking her back and forth. “She’s so cold, John,” he chanted, as he shrugged off his Belstaff and wrapped it around her cold body. “Where are they…why are they taking so long.”

          “They’re coming, almost here,” John offered, reassuringly. “We’ve got her now, Sherlock. She’s going to be okay.”

     It felt like hours before two burly medics entered the room, carrying a gurney, along with a large case of medical supplies. “Sir, you need to lay her down,” the one medic spoke to Sherlock, nudging him out of the way.

     The medics made quick work with Molly, placing a monitor on her fingertip for body temperature, checking her pupils for dilation, listening for heart rate, and looking over both arms to find a vein for an intravenous tube. John watched closely and helped tap a vein in her left hand, then made the decision for a laryngeal mask airway due to her labored breathing. Once stabilized, she was wrapped in a warming blanket, placed on the gurney and strapped in – head to toe. It took weeks to find her, to understand the puzzle of her disappearance, but in less than thirty minutes she was out of the room that had been her prison for the past five and a half weeks, loaded onto the ambulance, with Sherlock and John at her side.

      At the opposite end of the field, they reached the medevac chopper, where Mycroft waited and Molly transferred to the airlift. Lestrade’s silver BMW pulled up along side the ambulance, where he stepped out into the deafening sound of the whirling blades, protecting his face from flying field debris.

         “She’s being taken to London Bridge Hospital,” Mycroft shouted. “There’s room for you to sit in back,” he nodded toward Sherlock.

     Mycroft handed off some paper work to Lestrade, while Sherlock yelled to John. “Go back to the house, bring Marilyn to hospital! Will you do that?” John nodded his understanding and watched Sherlock climb into the helicopter.

     The sound of the blades winded louder as it the chopper took off and soon flew out of view. Inside, Mycroft spoke to Sherlock through their headsets. “How did you know where to find her?”

     Sherlock watched as the trauma doctors placed new intravenous lines into Molly’s arms, and monitor patches on her chest. He paused before answering, but then glanced in his brother’s direction. “Because…it was the field where she died.”

        “Who died,” Mycroft asked, confused.

        “Sarah Brigham.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem at the beginning, Dante's Prayer, is taken from a song by Loreena McKennitt, with the same name. It's quite beautiful, if you're into celtic music or mysticism. But, I also thought the song (lyrics) was appropriate for Sherlock, because this is the darkest hour for him. Molly's become his Schrödinger's Cat conundrum and, right now, two things are possible: she's either alive or dead. He's also moving on a sort of supernatural faith, and wants to believe it's possible to communicate telepathically, or through dreams. Dante's Prayer somewhat represents this place Sherlock finds himself - at his lowest, but seeking the highest.
> 
> The red and black German Shepherd named Tara, comes from the Hindu goddess, Arya Tara, or Jetsun Dolma, a female Bodhisattva. Her name, literally, translates to "Liberator."
> 
> The opening fable is really a twist on the Persephone and Hades mythology, but is layered with multiple meanings for the reader to decide. :)


	14. NILIN

Chapter 14

NILIN

_Pleased to meet you, Hope you guessed my name._

_But, what's confusing you is just the nature of my game._

                                                                                        Mick Jagger and Keith Richards

 

London Bridge Hospital

7 February 2016

11:53 PM

      Mycroft Holmes stood in the threshold of the dimly lit hospital room, leaning on his signature umbrella, watching the lines of the vital signs monitor scroll blue, red and yellow rhythmic patterns in time with their designated beeps. Although not ‘out of the woods,’ the crisis was passing, according to the doctors of the woman lying peacefully in the bed, who had been washed and carefully tucked beneath white sheets – a stark contrast to how she was found barely twelve hours earlier. A few tubes from her arms connected with bags of fluid hanging from the shiny chrome stand, and reminded him of when his brother was in a similar position not that long ago…his life had also hung in the balance. Still, she was strong and had the room not been so dark, he would swear the pink was returning to her cheeks. While Mycroft would never admit this openly, he was terribly fond of Molly Hooper and seeing her here, alive and recovering, brought about a relief he rarely allowed himself to feel, let alone show.

     He turned his gaze to the corner chair, where a dark figure sat still and statuesque, hands perched before his lips as though in prayer. Might as well get it over with, he thought to himself. Sherlock would be disappointed if he didn’t.

      “Has she woken?” Mycroft asked, his voice hushed as he stepped further into the room.

     A brief moment passed before Sherlock relinquished his silence. “No.”

     Both men, from their place on either side of Molly’s bed, acted as sentries over the woman, who unwittingly found her way into their hearts. Both willing to be her warrior and do whatever was necessary to keep her safe…

     Sherlock tousled his hair as though clearing away unwanted thoughts, then looked over to his brother. "Why here?"

     "You mean beside the fact she’s the only living witness for the Crown? It’s state of the art, private and the staff is completely trustworthy--"

     "Armed, too," Sherlock interrupted while standing, stretching his arms far above his head, giving his shoulders and back some much needed relief from sitting too long.

     "Of course,” Mycroft admitted with half-hearted righteousness. “I see you've taken your own security precautions from the media frenzy downstairs."

     "Of course.”

     Sherlock leaned over Molly, and gently ran his hand over her hair, then rested it along her cheek. “Her fever broke about an hour ago,” he offered softly, more for his own comfort than that of his brother’s. “But, they made a mess of her hair.”

     “Excuse me?” Mycroft asked, tossing Sherlock a bewildered glare.

     “They cut her hair…the matted areas.”

     “It’ll grow back,” Mycroft offered reassuringly, wishing the same were true for his thinning crop. “Do you need anything? There’s a lounge down the hall. Quite nice and a fairly good selection of coffee, tea and fresh sandwiches. I'll stay with her, if you’d like.”

     “Just coffee. Black--”

     “Two sugars. Yes, I know,” Mycroft paused. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

Sherlock adjusted the blankets around Molly, making sure her shoulders were covered, then dipped a small sponge into water before placing it to her dry lips.

     "She still feels cold…” He murmured, his voice trailing.

     “Pardon?”

     “Is surveillance in place?"

     "Yes. Accounts flagged, passports monitored, at least the ones we know about."

     "And, still not on the run?"

     Mycroft sighed, and steeled his gaze upon his brother. "No."

     “Boasting…how predictable,” Sherlock scoffed.

     “Elementary. When do you plan on leaving?”

     Sherlock sat back down in the over-sized lounge chair, and stretched his long legs out before him. “After she wakes. She’s not to be left alone, Mycroft. I’ve made a list, no one stays with her, or has access, that’s not on the list. You’ll see to it?”

     “Yes.”

     “I have your promise?”

     “Sherlock…yes, of course. You should know, however, our parents will be in London later today.

     “What for?”

     “Why do you think? They’ve ‘deduced’ you’re in a relationship, although clearly it wasn’t difficult. After Sherrinford…they want to be ‘ _here for you_ ,’ make sure you’re alright. Our mother was insistent.”

     “You’ll keep them occupied?”

     Mycroft threw his younger brother a look of incredulity, then took a deep sigh. “While you’re gone, but this is what parents do, Sherlock…we’ve just never allowed them. Now that you’ve entered the world of domestic bliss---”

     “You say that as though it were something distasteful.”

     “Not so. I'm quite happy for you. Just…call them. It’s what sons do.”

 

8 February 2016

2:22 AM

     "Mmmm," a faint groaning came from the still figure on the bed, causing the man dozing in the chair to wake. "Shhh…," was a whispered slurred, as she tried to stay focused and awake.

     "Molly." he answered softly, gently brushing the hair off her forehead. Nothing. She fell back into a deep sleep and he settled into the chair, making note of the time, and continued to watch...and wait.

 

4:20 AM

     Molly’s eyes flew open, the stark smell of bleach and medicine felt assaulting, and left her quietly gasping for breath. Frightened, she blinked rapidly to adjust her eyes to the dim lighting of the room, while searching for anything familiar, anything to soothe the overwhelming sense of panic rising within. But, then, she saw him…the dark silhouetted figure standing along side her bed, his hands resting against her body, speaking to her. Warm tears streaked down her face as terror gave way to relief, and though she wanted to say something, her words were drowned by hitching sobs.

     “It’s okay, Molly, you’re safe. You’re with me now,” Sherlock whispered reassuringly, hitting the call button for the medical staff. “Listen to me, you’re safe…just breathe, that’s it, breathe with me, we can do this.” He cradled her face and leaned down to place a kiss along her cheek, tasting the salty tears before wiping them away with his thumbs. “I’ve got you…you’re safe now…you’re safe….”

Within seconds, the quiet room burst into activity, causing Molly to recoil from the bright light and noise. “You’re alright,” Sherlock called out, as he was ushered into the hall, the door closed behind him. He pulled the phone from his pocket, his deft fingers flying quickly over the keypad to send a text:

_“She’s awake.”_

 

5:01 AM

     “Remarkably, Molly is doing better than expected and, for now, I'm cautiously optimistic. She’s critical, but stable.” Doctor Chaudhary continued his clinic assessment while guiding Sherlock toward the private lounge area. “Her body temperature is good, and blood pressure normalizing, so I allowed a slight elevation of her head, and we’ll evaluate again in twenty-four hours. I’ll have to wait for the lab results before I know any improvement with her white count, liver / kidney function and such. The nutritionist will see you sometime within the next day regarding the starvation to food protocol--”

     “Marilyn Wilcox, the nutritionist needs to speak with her,” Sherlock interrupted.

     “I'll make a note. She’s receiving hydration intravenously, so nothing more than a damp sponge to her lips, perhaps a few ice chips every fifteen minutes or so if she tolerates. We’ll see about starting water, and perhaps some clear fluids tomorrow. I’d tell you the importance of letting her rest, but I doubt that’ll be a problem. She has very little strength to do much else.

     “I understand there’s an ongoing investigation, but I must insist her physical recovery be given priority. If malnutrition and dehydration weren’t difficult enough, her immune system is working overtime to heal broken bones. When she was brought in, Molly was entering vasogenic shock. She is a small woman, with a very low BMI, and moving past ketosis of fasting, she was in protein degradation. In effect, her organs were shutting down, accelerated by wide spread infection. Had you not found her when you did, Mr. Holmes, I doubt she would have lived another twenty-four hours.”

 

5:15 AM

     Sherlock paused to collect his thoughts before opening the door to Molly’s room. He knew all too well the consequences Doctor Chaudhary spoke of…it was the Shade that slithered into his nightmares and fed the worst of his fears for almost six weeks. But she was here, on the other side of the door...sleeping…stabilizing, and real. He didn’t have to attenuate to every strand of thought moving though the webs of consciousness for precognition. He only had to attenuate to her, and she to him…the invisible link connecting them - without words, without body.

He sat on the edge of her bed, watching her sleep, and brushed his fingers along her cheek. Molly stirred, her eyes fluttering to stay open as she struggled against her body’s overpowering demand for sleep.

     “Youfounme...Isawyou…” she whispered, her voice trailing indistinctive slurs as she drifted through tides of sleep.

     “I saw you too,” Sherlock answered softly, placing a kiss on the pale hand that was frighteningly skeletal. All of her was…pelvic bones protruding, he could count her ribs if he had the stomach to do so, and her face was so gaunt it left the skin around her eyes etched with dark gray circles. He remembered that he once offered a cruel observation her about her weight, intended as a sneer against her irritatingly blind trust in dating partners. Or maybe it was just her dating…things were always so much more clear in retrospect. It was a lifetime ago, but he wished he could take it back, that he never uttered the words that hurt.

     “You came to me…I listened…I didn’t laugh.” Sherlock felt the irony grip at him, something he told no one. She felt disappointed, thinking she gave him a less than challenging cold case for a Christmas gift. But, now, watching her lay here, the tendrils of death fading, how could either of them have known that by giving him a case, she would become one.

     “Molly…nan is here, with Laura…they’re going to stay with you for a while. I have to go away, but I promise you, I'll be back soon.”

     Hearing a rustling sound, Sherlock turned to see Marilyn standing at the end of the bed, massaging Molly’s feet. “I know nothing about…what do they call it…um…oh, reflexology. But, when she was little and not feeling well, she liked her feet rubbed,” Marilyn said, her eyes glistening and watery. "Maybe it's a Pisces trait?"

     “She still does.”

     “If I were a younger woman, I’d go with you. Don't look at me like that...I'd insist.” The stern look she offered left no doubt regarding Marilyn’s resolve. “It’s probably for the best, though. I'm not feeling very merciful these days.”

     Sherlock nodded his understanding, then whispered something into Molly’s ear, before leaving to meet John Watson in the hall. Walking down the brightly lit corridor, he shrugged his arms into his Belstaff and tied the woolen, navy scarf around his neck.

     “Rosie?”

     “With Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft has a jet waiting for us. Where are we going?” John asked, as he and Sherlock stepped inside the lift.

     “Press the down button, John. We have an appointment with the Devil.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NILIN is from the ancient Enochian alphabet created by Dr. John Dee in the late 1500's. It's a bit evil of me, but I'll let you all work out the mystery of it's meaning. Thank you all for waiting so patiently for this last chapter! Sincere apologies for it taking much longer than expected.


	15. ENKI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Warning: The beginning of this chapter is verbally graphic and contains disturbing violence of a vicious, sexual crime. The information is important to the case Sherlock and John are solving, so use your discretion while reading. You can always skip to the second half of this chapter if it's too upsetting, and get enough understanding of what's taking place. 
> 
> Don't say I didn't tell ya.

Chapter 15:

** ENKI **

  _~*~_

_A penny for my thoughts, oh no I'll sell them for a dollar_  
_They're worth so much more after I'm a goner_  
_And maybe then you'll hear the words I been singin'_  
_Funny when you're dead how people start listenin'_

_~*~_

 

**04 July 1993**

**11:30 PM**

 

            Standing in the shadows, the tall, young man with jet black hair and eyes of amber that sometimes glowed like gem stones swirled with mud, watched her carefully make her way in his direction. She was near exquisite, her lithe beauty and petite frame made her seem almost mystical, very much like a creature he saw in a fantasy film when he was a kid. She would be perfect, if only brunette. Not just any brown, of course, but warm chestnut, with streaks of gold and auburn, that flowed like billows of silk in the sunlight and wind.

            She should have dyed her hair like he asked, but like so many others, she couldn’t escape her vanity, even for such a young thing. It was disappointing how quickly they turn from sweet little birds to demanding bitches, thinking they’re better than him. He would have dyed her hair if there were more time, but time was something he didn’t have. The full moon waited for no one and neither would his master. Yes, it was disappointing, but she’d have to do, this little fill-in for what he really wanted. He should have bought a wig, damn it. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

            “Oi! Sarah, over here,” the man hidden in the shadow of the trees shouted softly. He’d been waiting for about thirty minutes and was becoming anxious, worried she hadn’t been able to sneak out like she thought. It had to be tonight, he reminded himself, pushing down his frustration, which teetered on anger. The little bitches always did that – say one thing, but do another. Fucking bird was a cock tease.

            “Why’re there in the trees?” Sarah stopped and squinted toward the thicket, hesitant in her approach, making sure no one was watching.

            “Can’t expect me to stand out in the open now, can ya? And, you shouldn’t either. Someone might see ya, daft girl. Whatsa matter with you?”

            “I checked. Besides, do you like my new dress?” Sarah asked, as she twirled and sauntered like a runway model toward him. “Wore it just for you,” she taunted playfully, bending over slightly and biting her lower lip. “I feel like Janet Jackson.” She tossed her head back, giggling, letting her long blonde tresses fall over her shoulders

            He smelled the innocence of her budding, wet sex as she moved closer, the pale skin of her bare legs shimmering against the night, the hem of the dress inching up her thighs, and he couldn’t help but salivate at the way her tiny nipples stood at attention through the thin fabric, just waiting for him to bite and ravage. “Come ‘er, you. You’re prettier than Janet Jackson, ya know that, right?”

            He grabbed her wrist and pulled her along side his body, holding her close, running one finger down her arm, then inched his way to her waist, slowly moving closer to her breast.

           Sarah let out a faint gasp and suddenly felt self-conscious, wanting to pull away, but he held her tight, his lips and tongue trailing kisses on her neck, then nipped at her mouth. “It’s okay,” he murmured, “I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

           Before she could answer, his mouth covered hers, and he felt a power rise within him when she moaned and moved against his body. His mind spun thinking about the things he was going to do to her; how she would struggle, twist, and recoil against his strength. He imagined her stifled cries, and gasps for breath as the gag pulled taught at her mouth, twisted and knotted against her teeth - her wrists and legs bound to the bed. He loved their fear, how it lingered on their skin, and settled in their eyes. It was so superb that one day he considered maybe having one for a snack. She was his sweet little possession and, in the end, would submit to his will.

            “See,” he whispered gently, pulling away, watching her blush and trying to hide her face in her long blonde locks. “This is what people do when they love each other. They kiss…and other things.”

            “I…I’ve never kissed a boy before,” Sarah admitted bashfully. “Was it…was I okay?”

            “You’re perfect… The girl I’ve been saving myself for. And, you’ve saved yourself for me, right, Sarah?”

             Relief rushed over Sarah, causing a confession of her own. “I'm a…what I mean is…I’ve never done _it_.”

            “It’s okay, little bird, it’s okay. I’ve got all the time in the world,” he offered reassuringly, rubbing her back dangerously close to her buttocks. “But, I gotta surprise for you. You want to see?”

            “What is it?” She asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

            “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise. We gotta go this way, through Hanson’s field.”

           The tall, dark haired man began walking through the thicket of trees toward an open field when he realized Sarah wasn’t following. He turned around to find her hesitant, looking frightened. He liked fear, thrived on it, but not yet…she wasn’t suppose to be afraid yet. This wasn’t part of the plan.

            “What’s a matter duck? You don’t wanna see your surprise?”

             “I do,” Sarah answered timidly, “but…it’s haunted…old Hanson’s field. The ghosts haunt the house at night too.”

            The man looked at her sympathetically before bursting into muffled laughter. “Are you right in the ‘ead? You actually believe that rubbish--”

            “It’s not funny! Joshua McKnight heard it…the screams of ghosts! He said anyone that goes near that place is a tosser.”

            “Shush! Keep your voice down, ya ninny. You want someone to ‘ear us?” He strode closer to her, slowly, lowering his head and offered a seductive pout. “Do you think I'm a tosser?”           

            “N…no…but…I think…I can’t stay gone long. My mum, she’ll know I’ve snuck out. She always checks before she goes to bed.”

            “Right then. We wouldn’t want your mum finding out,” he said, moving closer. “You haven’t told her about us, have you?”

            “God, no! She’d shite her knickers if she knew I was seeing an older boy.”

            “You sure you’ve told no one? Not even your friend, the one you’re always with…what’s her name?”

            “Molly? She thinks Joshua fancies me. Everyone does.”

           That was her name. The girl with long, chestnut hair and streaks of gold and auburn. The one he’d been watching for a month, the one he really wanted. He listened to Sarah go on about something, but he wanted her to drown her out, or slap her, whatever it took to get her to shut the fuck up. His mind was fixed on the little fox, with big brown eyes…how she looked in her bathing suit at the beach, her tiny tits firm and perky. When she smiled, her whole face lit up, with dimples…they added something to her rosy cheeks, forcing him to control his thoughts when he imagined her bound and gagged. Goddamn it, Sarah’s endless droning was ruining this for him.

          “But, that’s why I'm on restriction. Molly’s nan caught us.” Sarah took a deep breath and looked at the man. “They treat her like she’s a child and don’t let her do anything. Well, I am older, so I suppose that’s something. Makes me more mature, don’t ya think?”

           “What?”

           “Molly’s nan caught us with a spliff. That’s why I had to sneak out.”

           “Yeah, tough break,” he hesitated, distracted by his thoughts. “So, why don’t ya get Molly to sneak out with you another night? I can fix ‘er up with a mate.

Of course the man wasn’t serious, but he was hooked, needed to know all about her, and Sarah had to tell him.

           “Like that’ll ever happen. Not.”

           “Maybe we could convince her? Does she live close?”

          “Yeah, cross the field and down a couple miles in East Dean. She’s posh, lives on a big estate…’er dad’s some kind of doctor or scientist. I always forget. The only time she’s out of her Nana’s sight is when she goes riding.”

           “A horse? What else does she do?”

           “Why’d ya want to know?”

           “Because she’s your friend and boyfriend’s should know all about their girlfriend,” he explained quietly, his fingers twisting playfully in her hair. He could barely wait to grab that hair and ride her like a maverick, until the little bitch was a broken in whore.

           “I'm your girlfriend?” Sarah blushed and felt excited he wanted her. The girl who boys her own age teased unmercifully. If only her friends could see her now and the older boy who loved her, they'd be so jealous.

           “Of course you are, you crazy bird. Come ‘er, I brought you a treat to drink. I mixed it myself.”

           The elation he felt at how quickly she drank from the flask excited him, made him hard, and knew it was only a matter of minutes before it took effect. Greedy little thing, he thought, as he watched her continue to gulp down half the bottle, before grabbing it from her hand. He didn’t want her to pass out, or have to carry her to the house. He wanted her awake, but just woozy enough so she couldn’t fight. That was the fun of it, after all…seeing the terror in her eyes as he had his way, gave her what she deserved. She was the sacrifice and should feel honored, even though he knew she wouldn’t. They never do.

          “You shouldn’t gulp it down like that…or make yourself drunk in one go,” he told her, as she began to sway, holding on to him for balance.

          “I feel…funny.”

          “I know…it’s strong, an’ you just drank a bit too much. Let’s walk it off.”

Placing his arm around her waist, the man guided her sluggish steps through the field of knee high corn, toward the abandoned farm house.

            “I don’t want to go there,” Sarah slurred, panic rising in her chest, as she tried to pull away and go back. “I don’t…don’t feel so good.”

            God, she was making this hard, he thought. They should have been at the house by now. He took a small torch out of his pocket and flashed it three times at the house. It was the signal to wait, that he was on his way.

            Sarah slumped to the ground, and stared up at the slice of the full moon not obscured by rain clouds. “There’s a couple of moons…Joey…I can’t…”

            He knelt down beside her, slapped her so hard it stung his hand…even though he laughed thinking she now saw stars to go along with the ‘double’ moon. “I fucking told you never to say my name, Sarah! Why do you make me do things like this to you,” he scolded, as he pulled her hair and shoved her head hard into the ground…her small cries choked in her throat.

           “You have to make it up to me now, you know that,” he sneered, running his right hand up the inside of thigh, snaking it under the hem of her dress. “I didn’t want to do it like this, Sarah, but you’ve left me no choice. We could have had so much fun the other way. No, stop it now…stop fighting…just relax.”

            He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pair of gloves, along with a small clear bottle of rubbing alcohol. “This is gonna be a bit cold, but you need to be washed down,” he said calmly, pouring the liquid over her bare skin.

             “Shush…you’re making too much noise,” he said quietly, taking the tie out of his pocket, binding her wrists behind her back.

            “Stop crying…I haven’t even started,” he snapped, slapping her again, tugging the dress over her head, and leaving it there so he wouldn’t have to see her ugly, crying face. It wasn’t the face he wanted anyway, he decided…it was the other one. Oh, if only it were Molly in the moonlight.

             Taking a sharp, scalpel-like knife out of his pocket, he cut away her panties and climbed on top…imagining what it would be like with his brown haired beauty, how she would feel, the sounds she’d make, her large brown eyes filled with fear, pleading with him as his hands tightened around her neck. He wondered if she’d gurgle as the life was squeezed out of her tiny body, and if she’d gasp or cough when he allowed her to breath again? Oh, God, how desperate he was to see the horror settle in her eyes, as he did it over and over again, so she’d know she caused this to happen. He’d have to plan carefully for her…it’d be another six months at least, but he could wait. He’d get her in the end, no matter how long it took.

            He carved the chattel mark for Whore Trade into Sarah’s shoulder – a reversed C with one line slashed through the center – and watched the blood trickle down her arm, his other hand covering her mouth to stifle her cries. She was worth at least ten thousand pounds, he thought. Maybe more, since he didn’t fuck her. Virgins always brought a premium, even if she was a bit old at fifteen.

            Sarah continued to sob, her arms flailing as she struggled out of the tie that bound her wrists, frantically pulling the dress off her face, while choking and gasping for breath. She felt the sting of his fist punch her on the jaw, as the weight of his body on her chest left her heaving until she vomited the undigested alcohol over both of them.

            “Fucking bitch!” The man yelled, wiping away the splatters from his face, jumping off her prone body to tear off his jacket and shirt. “Goddamn, filthy little cunt!” He turned around to kick her, only to see her run across the field. “Get back here,” he hissed under his breath and shot off after her. God, she was fast, he thought, even drugged.

Up ahead he saw the flashing of light, another man had come into the field. “She’s running,” he yelled, “go after her!”

Both men, from either side, chased her through the field, watching her stumble, until the heavy set man lunged, causing her to trip and fall.

            “Fuckin’ bitch can run,” the fat man leaned over, gasping for breath, his hands resting on his knees.

            “Oh, fuck!"

            “Whatsa matter,” Joey asked, stopping to catch his breath.

            “She ain’t movin’.”

            “Course she’s not movin. Fuckin’ bitch is pissed and drugged. Let’s get ‘er up.”

            ‘No, she’s bleedin’…from the ‘ead.”

            "What!?" Joey dropped next to Sarah and saw her head had smashed against a large rock when she fell. He felt for a pulse, first at her neck and then her wrist. Nothing. “Jesus Christ! She’s fuckin’ dead, you moron! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

           

**~*~ ~*~ ~*~**

**08 February 2016**

**12:38 PM**

       

            “Sherlock. Sherlock.” John leaned over his friend, shaking his shoulder, while feeling a bit guilty about waking him from some much needed sleep. He was used to Sherlock thriving off of adrenaline during cases, but this time it involved Molly, and sleep, or even eating, was something he did very little of for the past six weeks.

            Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, and chewed on his lower lip. “John.”

            John Watson sat back down in the seat opposite of him, and picked up the case file on the fold down table. “I hated to wake you, mate, but we’ll be landing in about thirty minutes.”

            “I wasn’t sleeping. Just doing some work in my mind palace. He must have groomed her for sometime, John. Got her to trust him….lured her into his trap like a spider.”

            “Wha…what are you going on about?”

            “Sarah… Did you read over those case files?”

            “Yes. It’s horrific. But, who’s Sarah?”

            “Molly gave it to me…a Christmas present.”

            “This case?”

            “Hmm, yes. Cold case from Lestrade, he was going to give it to me anyway. Naturally, I figured it out, didn’t take long, but Molly and I did a bit of investigating a while back, so I could tie up some loose ends. She didn’t let it go.”

            “Molly?”

            “She found a link between that case and another one that washed up on shore last summer. She wrote about it, in her diary…planned on asking me, but forgot.”

            “So, are you saying she was kidnapped because she found the person who did this?”

Sherlock drank down the last bit of his cold coffee, and leaned forward to stretch his back. “Partly, I suspect.”

            “This case is over fifty years old,” John scoffed, still not understanding. “It can’t be the same person.”

            “No, it’s not.”

            “So, you’re thinking a copy cat?”

            “Not a person, but an organization that lives on.”

            “For stealing babies? Black market adoptions?”

            “Whatever, whoever, is needed. Human slavery is a multi-billion dollar industry, John. Did you know a British infant sells for twenty-five thousand American dollars or more? A virgin bride between the ages of ten and thirteen sell on the trade market for about fifteen thousand. The sale price goes down the older she is, but revenue is made quickly when she’s introduced to prostitution.”

            “Jesus!” John gasped, swallowing hard to keep down the bile rising in his throat. He’d spent too many years working by Sherlock’s side to feel ignorant of criminal atrocities, but this…this was so much more than he wanted to think about. “Oh my God, was Molly…you know…”

            “What?”

            “Pregnant?”

            “No.”

            John studied his friend and knew Sherlock wasn’t open to talking about personal things, especially when it regarded his relationship with Molly. “You’re sure? Because, you know--”

            “Of course I'm sure. Unlike you, John, I think I’d know if my wife was pregnant.”

            “Your wife!?”

            “What?”

             Looking down at the folder on the table in front of him, John absentmindedly flipped through it’s pages. “You said, _‘I think I’d know if my wife was pregnant.’_ So…you’re married…?”

            “No,” Sherlock answered with a half-hearted scoff, putting an end to John's questioning. “Now listen, the day Molly and I investigated in Hastings, she got the medical records for these women in the hospital archives, while I interviewed a man who was a suspect in the death of Eleanor Spalding. He was a young man at the time, and eventually cleared of all charges.

            “But, the records attendant at the hospital…their files must have been flagged,” Sherlock paused, his voice drifting as though thinking out loud. “All he’d have to do is make a phone call, let the voice on the other end know the files were pulled.”

            “Did you check the phone records? See who he might have called?”

Sherlock recklessly waved his hand, dismissing the idea. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever number he called was destroyed immediately afterward.”

            “So, they – whoever _they_ are – ordered her kidnapping?”

            “Think of it as a convergence of events…much earlier than anticipated. It wasn’t the full moon until the 22nd.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “Sarah. He works in six month gaps. On the full moon – symbolic for pregnancies, the womb, womanhood, mating, and so on. He thinks himself God-like, empowered to do his master’s bidding. They’re his sacrifice to Enki.”

            “Sherlock, I'm trying to follow, but who the hell is Sarah or…Enki?”

            “Honestly, John, don’t you ever read?”

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, taking deep breaths to quell his mounting frustration. “Who is Sarah?”

            “She was Molly’s best friend…murdered at age fifteen in Hanson’s field. It surrounds the house where we found Molly. But, Sarah isn’t who he wanted…although I suspect he never intended to murder her. She was far too valuable, in terms of her market resale.”

            “Christ. Resale, she was a child. How…how do you know this?”

            “Because all his victims were brunettes.”

            “You’re saying he wanted---”

            “Molly. She was his original target, but couldn’t get to her. A week after Sarah’s funeral, Molly was sent to boarding school in Switzerland for her final three years. Her father was doing research there, so it was easy to visit for holiday. Afterward, they did a bit of traveling and she went into University. Her visits home were brief, the longest being when her father was dying.”

            “So, he lost interest…”

            “He lost touch, until recently.”

            “Then you know…who it is?”

            “Yes. Just need a bit of proof. Mycroft’s had surveillance on the ground since the other day. Keeping an eye on things until we arrived.”

            “Where are we going? You never said.”

            Sherlock leaned back in the leather seat, and looked out the window as the jet made it’s descent. “How’s your Portuguese, John?”


	16. Mother and Child Reunion

Chapter 16

Mother and Child Reunion

_I can't for the life of me, remember a sadder day_   
_I know they say let it be, But it just don't work out that way_   
_And the course of a lifetime runs, Over and over again._

                                                                                                                                                                    Paul Simon

 

10 February 2016

3:43 PM

 

      Marilyn Wilcox stood in front of the large expanse of windows over looking the south bank of the river Thames, admiring the pale blue sky and a few, big pillows of clouds that could have easily been mistaken for newly sheered wool just waiting to be spun. It had been a long time since she’d come up to London, but standing here, taking in the skyline with the winter’s radiance bouncing off of tall buildings, streaming through the glass, she suppressed a scoff remembering how she worried about the dangers of this city, when it was really her own sleepy village that stole her peace of mind, and Molly.

      She’d forgotten how she came to stand here, mesmerized by the skyscape while weaving her graying hair into a long, lackadaisical plait. That’s right, she remembered, she had wanted to pull the shades so not to disturb Molly’s sleep, but thought better of it. The child had been in the dark for far too long that a little sunshine would probably be a welcome sight. Only she wasn’t a child, not anymore, and no one could predict how this event would change her. Molly had been through too much loss for her years, but she was head-strong, always came out better, happy, even wiser for it. And, along the way she became Marilyn’s, the child she was never able to have, and she’d be damned if anyone would take this from her.

      A sad smile flushed over Marilyn’s face remembering it wasn’t that many years ago when she stood in Molly’s bedroom, watching her sleep, wondering what her future would hold and, more importantly, if she could be kept from harm. The poor child had been inconsolable after Sarah’s funeral, and it was only sensible to make her a tea for sleeping, then sit by her side until she drifted off into the much needed respite from grief. Afterward, she walked around the bedroom, taking in all the years that had passed in the blink of an eye; the evidence mocking her from the pale lavender walls scattered with posters of the latest celebrity boy crush or band, cd’s littered the shelves next to stuffed animals and Beatrix Potter, although science books and Tolkien were taking over. There were tubes of pale pink lipstick on the vanity and magazines open to pages illustrating the most fashionable colors and ways to apply make-up, or how to know what _‘he’_ was thinking…all the signs pointing to changes…and growing up too fast. So many memories to think about, including the one’s she would never see. It was the most difficult of decisions to make, but she knew there was no other way. Robert had to listen and ‘ _no_ ’ would be unacceptable. She placed a soft kiss on Molly’s forehead and whispered, _‘It’s for your own good.’_

      “Robert.” Marilyn stormed into the library and took in the sight of her husband, Peter, with Robert, looking over papers strewn across the desk. The richly paneled room, surrounded by ceiling to floor bookshelves and a large river stone fireplace, smelled of cherry and fresh pipe tobacco, and something else that would forever remain a memory. She waved the wisps of smoke away from her face in mocking disapproval, then opened the window for the needed fresh air.

      “What’s wrong? Is it Molly?” Robert and Peter asked in unison.

      Marilyn helped herself to whatever they were drinking, probably something in the single malt family, then swiftly drank it down. She was never one for strong spirits, but right now a bit of liquid courage might go a long way. “Of course it’s Molly,” she turned on them, shivering from the bitter after taste of whiskey. “Her best friend has been murdered and you lot are in here like nothing’s happened--”

     “That’s not true, love,” Peter interrupted, pulling her into an embrace and placed a soft kiss on her head. “You know that.”

      Impatient with the comfort Peter offered, Marilyn shrugged away and stared out the window…the room felt suffocating, even with a gentle, summer breeze. Turning toward Robert, she pushed down her tears in the hope to strengthen her resolve.

      “Ever since Lydia passed, I’ve been raising Molly right along side you, Robert. All of us have – she’s as much mine as she is yours and don’t think to tell me differently.” Marilyn paused and took in a deep breath, waiting to see if the truth she offered would be challenged. “This person… _monster_ , that did this to Sarah, he’s still out there. You have to take Molly to Switzerland, put her in school…get her out of here.”

      “Excuse me?”

     “Someone murdered that little girl…we don’t know who…or if they’ll do it again!”

      Peter sighed as he placed his pipe in the ashtray, and pinched his brow as though this might help the weariness threatening to overtake his calm. He had listened to her worries over the past week, all the _‘What If’s’_ and uncertainties that added to the heavy, gray pallor shadowing their once happy home.

      “Love, listen to me, no one is going to hurt Molly---”

      “You don’t know that, Peter! You…or you, Robert, pay little mind to the going’s on around here. You’re gone most of the time,” she pointed accusingly at Robert, then turned on her husband. “Peter, your head’s stuck in those damn beehives, publishing papers, or off with your mates. She’s growing up right before your eyes and you don’t see it, because you’re both too damn busy. I'm the one raising her and like it or not…I…I’ve made up my mind. Molly goes to boarding school and you’re taking her, Robert.”

      Robert paced the floor listening, poured himself another glass from the decanter and cleared his throat as he sat in the dark green leather chair by the glass doors. He was exhausted, not feeling well, and if his prematurely graying hair wasn’t enough, listening to Marilyn remind him he’d been remiss in raising his daughter, not properly seeing to her future, or well-being, left his mind spinning.

      “Marilyn…what you’re wanting... _demanding_ …it…it’s damn near impossible. She’s not on any list for boarding school…I haven’t…there’s been no preparation. There’s procedure, protocol…I can’t just take her to Switzerland.”

Marilyn listened quietly, dabbed away a few fallen tears, then wrapped her arms around herself as she nodded to each word being said.

     “I understand,” she answered softly, walking to the door, then turned to stare at both men. “It must be hard to arrange something like this on such short notice. But…I'm giving you a choice, Robert, either you make this happen, or I'm taking Molly to Scotland at the end of the week.”

**~*~*~*~*~**

 

     Two days had passed since Sherlock and John left in the early morning hours, off to God knows where, to do God knows what. But, whatever they were doing and whoever they were doing it to, would not fare well by the time Sherlock was done. Marilyn had always considered herself a forgiving woman, that everything happens for a reason – and whether it could be seen or not – there was a balance in the Universe. Not this time…if there was a balance to be achieved, it was to remove the evil that did this. Nothing less would be acceptable.

     She sat back down in the large lounge chair that had been her home for going on three days and told herself that when Molly was fully awake, able to sit up and carry on a conversation longer than ten minutes, she’d leave and get some proper sleep. In the meantime, Laura and Mrs. Hudson had taken it in turns to help with Rosie, the other coming to the hospital to sit with her and keep company. Meena arrived daily, usually after work, and made lists of what Molly would need once she was able to start taking care of herself. At the top of the list were new clothes and a stylist – to ‘ _repair the God awful butchery the nurses did on her hair_ ’. Marilyn would listen patiently as Meena rambled on about things that didn’t seem important, but stopped herself of any criticism knowing everyone was coping in their own way. For Meena, it was taking control of what she knew best, putting things back in order as much as possible…even if she couldn’t hide from the worry etched across her face.

     Grabbing thin strands of fleece from her bag, Marilyn went back to the ease of drafting the wool, gently pulling section after section, until she made it ready for twisting on the drop spindle. It’d be a good blend to weave into a lovely blue and green tartan, reminiscent of the Highland clans… especially to be used on cold evenings, reading along side the fire. Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed Molly had woken, or watched quietly…her eyes bright and alert for the first time in days.

     “Nan,” Molly muttered, offering a sleepy smile.

     "Oh, my darling girl.” Marilyn returned the smile, and tossed the wool back into its bag. “Would you like some water,” she asked, sitting along the edge of the bed, brushing a strand of fallen hair from Molly’s face.

      “No…thank you.”

      “How about we sit you up,” Marilyn said, taking hold of the bed control. “The doctors say it’s okay now.”

     “Please,” Molly answered softly, pulling herself up with the bed. “Where am I? How long have I been here?”

     Setting down the remote, Marilyn held back tears of relief and smiled. “London Bridge Hospital. We’ve had you back almost three days.”

     Molly closed her eyes as though in search for any memory of finally leaving that horrible place. “I don’t remember. How long…was I gone?”

     “Five and a half weeks. Sherlock found you, he never gave up. Doctor Watson…John, kept a journal for you, so you’d know everything that happened---”

     “Did he say…how…” Molly questioned, a hint of panic rising in her voice as she thought about the unthinkable.

     Marilyn poured a glass of water and offered it to Molly, holding it while she took a sip. “It was something in your diaries,” she paused, “whatever you wrote…he figured it out.”

     “He read…oh god,” Molly sighed breathlessly, too tired to hide her embarrassment. “Does he know…who did this?”

     “I suspect so.”

     Molly squinted against the bright sunlight lowering in the western sky. “Where…where is he?”

     “Tying up some up some loose ends,” Marilyn patted her hand and placed the glass of water on the side table. “You came to him, in a dream…told him to read what you wrote. Yes, you did,” she insisted at Molly’s scoff, then crossed the room to lower the window shade. “He didn’t know you kept a diary, but it helped him find what he was looking for. He found you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took longer than expected to post. :( All my good intentions flew out the window with birthday celebrations and unexpected company. Geesh, you'd think I could explain the importance of posting regularly to my fic.... Thank you for being patient. xo


	17. Every Baddie Has A Lair Someplace

Chapter 17

**Every Baddie Has a Lair Someplace**

_~*~_

_There must be someone who can set them free:_

_To take their sorrow from this odyssey  
To help the helpless and the refugee; _

_To protect what's left of humanity._

E.L.P.

~*~

 

 

10 February 2016

2:18 AM

     The day was ending similar to how it began, with more questions than answers, surrounded in darkness and an exhaustion that refused to yield. Only this time, as the jet took off for England, they left behind several casualties of gun fire that, quite honestly, the world was better off; a building grounded from explosives; and a half dozen traumatized, young women that would one day be reunited with their families – although John Watson felt a painful ache squeeze against his chest as he recalled their faces, the fear in their eyes, the youngest being only thirteen years old, and wondered if they’d ever recover from the evil that had been done to them. He carried the harsh memories of the war, and of killing men who did the same for their country as he did for England. But, today was one of the very few times when he felt no regret, no pangs of conscience, for killing. It was a different kind of war, but even Sherlock didn’t stop him when he emptied half a magazine into a man caught torturing a young woman for breaking a dish.

     He greedily drank back a rather large amount of chilled scotch and watched Sherlock, at the back of the plane, reading pages from old books written in an unspoken language. They were both battered and bruised, but Sherlock had taken fire in his shoulder although, luckily, it was a flesh wound. Still, John could see him wince as he turned the pages of the old books in front of him, determined to find whatever it was he was looking for, refusing to talk. Whatever was next, John felt like the jet…flying in the dark, and jostled through turbulence.

     When they first arrived, he had no idea what they were doing in Portugal and Sherlock’s answers were cryptic at best, and evasive at worst. Typical, he thought, suppressing a scoff.

**~*~**

     “I don’t speak Portuguese,” John remembered saying to Sherlock, his patience wearing incredibly thin.

     “Hmm, pity. Well—”

     “Stop. Would you…just stop. Why are we here?”

     “Serving an eviction notice.”

**~*~**

     Sherlock liked his clever quips, or answers shrouded in mystery, although it’s not like John would have argued had he known…he was just as eager to catch the person who did this to Molly as Sherlock was. But, a little head’s up would have prepared him for what they were walking into. Although, on second thought, maybe that’s what he was being spared from, for as long as possible.

     It was a mission, similar to the many he carried out while in Afghanistan, but this time he wasn’t sure who was who. MI-6…military…Freelance Contract Services? He couldn’t help but wonder if Mary’s team would have been called upon to handle something like this? And, that, he thought, was probably the real reason Sherlock didn’t tell him…to keep him from thinking…too much thinking, especially about Mary. God, how he missed her and wondered if she would be with them now, on this jet, flying back home, back to Rosie. Of course she would…there’s no way she would have ever stayed behind.

     They had landed at the airport in Faro and drove until they reached the outskirts of Sagres, a small harbor village best known for it’s nautical school and the raging surf from the wild Atlantic sea. Very few estates nestled among the white cliffs, overlooking the ocean, but it didn’t matter to the few who braved the winds and storms…it was the isolation they wanted. The wildness and wonder…or the privacy it afforded to criminal activity.

     The timing, as Sherlock put it, couldn’t have been more perfect. A storm had passed through the early morning hours and, typical to the area, took down wires and cut off communication other than radio or, if you were very lucky, mobile phone service. Even then, radio and mobile signals had been scrambled for obvious reasons…their mission was lethal and as swift as possible, without alerting any other cells attached to the trafficking cartel. Eyes and ears had been on the ground, watching and waiting…waiting for Sherlock, with express orders not to engage until he arrived.

     The target was the estate belonging to the owner of Kincaid Imports, otherwise known as Eduardo Nunez Kincaid Inc. ENKI. It was a name Sherlock mentioned when telling the story about Sarah, leaving John to assume correctly that Mr. Kincaid was not in the business of importing household goods, but instead human beings. Women. Girls. Possibly even black market adoption. He had very few holdings in England, although his export receivers throughout Eastern Europe, Africa as well as Belize, and southern Mexico were rather extensive. This much Sherlock offered before boarding the jet back home.

     Staring into the night sky, his face shadowed by the reading light, John thought about the intricacies of cases they’d investigated over the years. A few were ridiculous, many others life threatening, while some were heartbreaking and filled with so much injury they were long passed the point of return. In the end, and while the complexity of those involved depended upon innumerable variables, the motives usually came down to a few simple reasons. In this case, greed. And, not only greed for money, but for power and entitlement…all of it done without conscience.

     John leaned his head against the window and placed the glass of scotch along his cheekbone…the ice soothed the aching of a bruise that would surely be dark purple-green by the time they landed. He looked over to Sherlock, still buried in the books, and while it was doubtful he’d get any real answers, he decided to press for some anyway. At the very least, a frustrating conversation was better than silence right now, and might help distract from the unwanted memories that could so easily creep up during a three-hour flight.

     “So…code. In books,” John muttered, feeling a keen ache in his leg as he sat down opposite Sherlock. “I know you heard me.”

     “Mmm.”

     “We came all this way for…books.”

     “Not just any books,” Sherlock reluctantly answered after a few minutes. “Although, to be fair, I didn’t know what I was looking for until I saw it.”

     “What’s that then?”

     “This, John,” Sherlock nodded to the books laying about him, “Is bookkeeping. Bank accounts, routing numbers, names and, more importantly, sale dates going back to the early 1990’s. All in an ancient language, that by the unobserved eye would be overlooked. I just had to figure out the key.”

     “And, did you? Figure out the key?”

     “Yes.”

     John swirled the ice in his scotch, before drinking down the last bit of golden drops, hoping the flight attendant would soon appear to offer more. “So, what now? Eduardo Kincaid…do we know where he is?”

     “He's not real. It’s just a cover for an acronym: Enki.”

     “That name again. Sherlock, what is Enki?”

     “He is a mythological, Sumerian God, once considered Lord of the Earth. His temple was called E-abzu, basically an underground aquifer.” Sherlock lifted his mug, offering a sardonic ‘cheers,’ and drank down the last bit of coffee.

     “Enki overthrew his grandfather, Abzu,” he continued, “by putting him into a deep sleep, thus imbuing himself with all Abzu’s power, including his fertilizing talents as Lord of Semen. His symbol is sometimes likened to a goat with a fish tale, which is a bastardization of the symbol and story, but such is the way of insanity. Over time, and before the myth of the snake, it’s Enki who was thought to tempt Eve in the Garden of Eden - clearly a manipulated fable to prey upon the superstitious and feeble-minded, which perpetuated the idea of masculine dominance over feminine.”

    “Right. So, we’re not after a Sumerian God--”

     Sherlock leaned back in his seat, and poured another cup of coffee from the glass thermos, this time taking care not to over use his injured shoulder. He dropped two sugar cubes into the dark brown, steaming liquid and stared off into the distance, lost in his thoughts, or perhaps taking in some new revelation. “No, but there is one who considers himself a disciple of sorts.”

     “How do you know this?”

     “You know my methods, John.”

     “We’ve got another two hours before we land, Sherlock. I can keep asking questions.”

     “The Woman,” he answered hesitantly. “She sent me a card with an symbol, Enochian, language of the angels. The same symbol, I later discovered, was found on an unidentified female that washed on shore in Brighton last summer. Molly was there, examined the body, suspected murder and not drowning from an ‘unfortunate’ boating accident as was originally suggested. That’s what set all of this in motion, partly.”

     “What was the symbol?”

     “A reversed ‘C’, with a line drawn through it’s middle. It’s used as a property mark, like branding with cattle or sheep. It represents the seller, and depending upon the number of lines through the letter, designates the purpose of the property. A single line is for prostitution, a double line for procreation, Lord of Semen, and so on. See,” Sherlock pointed to pages in the books, “It’s all here.”

     “Jesus.”

     “I don’t think he had anything to do with this, John.”

     “So, how did you find…his name?”

     “Molly. Once I read through her diaries and autopsy notes, there were other symbols and, when placed together, or taken as literal letters instead of words, they spelled---”

     “Enki,” John interrupted. “So, Molly…she figured out what happened?”

     “I don’t know…although I think she had her suspicions. But, what’s important is that the people behind this thought she had. The Hastings case you read…easy peasy, even an inexperienced bob could have figured it out. So, why would it remain unsolved for over fifty years? Who would have the ability to bury it for that long?”

     “Someone powerful, rich. They…wanted Molly taken?”

     “Possibly. Or, maybe she was only meant to be watched and something went wrong. The timetable was off by almost three weeks.”

     “Yeah, you’ve said that. But, how? It still doesn’t make sense.”

     “If you were powerful and needed information to stay buried, who would you want to protect your interests?”

     “I…I don’t know. A partner?”

     “As with the myth, Enki buries the grandfather and steals his power. In this case, maybe it’s someone who’s opportunistic, uses the power given to him from the bigger fish – or, in this case, goat - for his own agenda.”

     “Who?”

     “That, John, is the last piece of the puzzle.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to anyone who lives in Portugal, in or near Sagres. The village looks absolutely beautiful and, while researching, seems like a place where I'd love to visit. Btw, this hasn't been Brit checked either so, again, apologies for anything I've completely messed up.
> 
> For those who don't know, E.L.P. stands for Emerson, Lake and Palmer and the song where the lyrics come from is: Karn Evil 9.
> 
> Lastly, Enki (pronounced In-kai) is an actual, very old Sumerian God (Lord of the Earth and Lord of Semen), that the villain of this story has bastardized to meet his agenda. Apologies to those who enjoy the complex Sumerian and Babylonian stories.


	18. Path of Thorns

Chapter 18

 Path of Thorns

~*~

 _You were my compass star_  
_You were my measure_  
_You were a pirate's map_  
_A buried treasure_

Sting

~*~

 

 

10 February 2016

06:58 AM

 

            The tarmac and hangers shimmered with ice flakes after an early morning drizzle, helped by the bright red sun just beginning to rise in the east. A black limousine waited for them upon landing and without having to say anything, or ask, both Sherlock and John knew its destination. They’d be meeting with Mycroft in a matter of thirty minutes and then, hopefully, John said out loud, back to Baker Street to see Rosie and get some much needed sleep.

            John had met with Mycroft many times in his ‘office’ at the Diogenes Club, but this was the first time he’d been in his rooms. Or, suite, if he were being more exact. It was spacious, rich and lush with both color and fabric, the scent of wood smoke coming from the fireplace, a partially smoked cigar in the ashtray and, on a finely crafted table, covered with exquisite linen, were trays of breakfast foods – for which John silently expressed thoughts of gratitude. He was famished and the several glasses of scotch he had only a few hours earlier did nothing to help the gnawing ache of emptiness.

            Mycroft entered from the adjoining bedroom, adjusting his tie and tossed a hand towel back into the room he just left. He slipped himself easily into the dark gray suit coat, then helped himself to a cup of tea from the beverage cart.

            “Well, I hear your efforts were successful and I assume you brought back the necessary evidence.”

            “Of course,” Sherlock offered dryly, tossing his Belstaff haphazardly on a wooden hook, then slumped tiredly into the dark green leather wingback along side the fireplace.

            “Please, help yourself to breakfast, Doctor Watson. You’ve been with my little brother for two days and needless to say you’re probably hungry.”

            Sherlock closed his eyes, and listened to the clinking of cups and plates, John and Mycroft's voices humming in the background, wishing the memories that were beginning to surface from the last time he was in this room would stay where they belonged...tucked away in some darkened corner of his mind palace. As much as he wanted his thoughts to obey his will, the images came perforce...Molly curled in the very chair where he sat, wearing clothes she rushed to put on at the insistence of a phone call, and he couldn't help but chuckle quietly at how child-like she looked - hair fallen over her face, wellington boots with pajama bottoms, a long t-shirt with an overcoat she hadn't bothered to take off. She was ready to leave, he thought, at the earliest sign of trouble. And, here it was - he was the trouble - watching her, feeling reluctant to wake her, only to inflict more injury to the pain he'd already caused...even if it was to save her life.

            Sherlock wanted to steal this moment, while he still had the chance, and sat on the ottoman, quietly edging it before her - if only to watch her slow, easy breathing, and how she barely made a sound. If he could have kept her here, in this place of peace, spared from further pain, he would. He would have done anything to save her from what he was about to do, except give her what she always wanted. But, for the next few moments, he would let her have this, as he memorized the fine lines on her hands, the soft pink glow on her cheeks, even the dark circles around her puffy eyes - no doubt caused from crying. He'd have to memorize that, too, and make sure it would never happen again. She didn't deserve this life...the only life he could offer.

            So many times, and in so many ways, he tried to protect her, but knew it was his doing she was here - sleeping in Mycroft's chair, her home torn apart and made clear of threats. She was the fodder for Eurus to rip him open, expose his well-hidden heart, only now there was no going back. He would miss their well-oiled dance, how she always kept her cool, along with her distance, never asking anything of him, never giving herself away. Until now, he wasn't ready to admit he could feel it falling apart, long before the phone call, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it. That is, nothing he was willing to do.

            Sherlock considered that perhaps she would have been better off with the imposter Tom. After all, she convinced herself that he was 'the one' who could make her happy, even if it was a lie. She had made it so easy back then, willing to let go, to move on from him, so why hadn't he let her? Why didn't he stay the hell away? Using her bedroom as a bolthole was a calculated decision, knowing it would drive the necessary wedge between she and her pretender. He saw it, at John and Mary's wedding, the moment he'd been waiting for since the day he took her "crime solving" - the disappointment and hesitancy in her eyes, the way she held herself, and yet she would still continue to settle for something she didn't want, all for the sake of romantic entanglement. Did she really think that he would ignore her, not say or do something to show the magnitude of her mistake?

            That was never what it was really about, though. After everything they'd been through and shared, it wasn't Tom who needed her, it was him. And, realizing a little too late, it was through his indifference he sought her attention - he loved her. But, now it was Tom, who would constrict her to ridiculous weekends at some pub, forcing her to have nonsensical conversations about boring things, with boring people. Or, God help him, monopolize her with football at the park, where she'd be relegated to sit on the sidelines, cheering over a stupid game, and wasting her talents as a brilliant pathologist, all to say she had a 'man.'

            So what that they were having "lots of sex." How good could it be? Tom wasn't clever enough to know what she'd want, or how to please her. He wouldn't know how to toss her a simple look that would leave her breathless and wanting. He wanted to believe she still loved him, could see into him like no one else, and would do anything for him. If it hadn't been for the needle and the sweet surrender it provided, he would have made short order of Molly's ridiculous charade and ripped the heart from her imposter, without a shred of remorse...' _She doesn’t love you, she doesn’t want you and she never has. Every time you're inside her, fucking her, listening to her moan, she's thinking of me. Go. Leave now and never look back.'_ There were a few benefits of addiction, he supposed. One being that he abandoned the heavy-handed, Neanderthal approach that would leave Tom pissing himself, and settled for the more civilized, silent communication that took place between men when it came to the women they love. He simply re-staked his claim by taking over her bedroom, and offered a wining smile at the interloper, when Molly wasn't looking, challenging him to just try and take what was never his to begin with. Molly belonged to him...she always had. He'd just left her alone two years too long.

            But, now, knowing he had to add to her injury, maybe she would have been better off with the imposter, even if he didn't need her. Now, he had to count on her finding a way to forgive him, and she would. She'd need some time, but they'd find a new normal, pick back up and start fresh. She'd come around and see things his way...she always did.

            Admittedly, he was surprised by the emotions threatening to steal his calm, the trepidation slowly rising within, or how his hands shook - and all too aware of the sweat forming on his brow. He'd make it quick, and for once be honest with her so she'd know that her feelings were never one sided and that he loved her too. He wanted happiness for her and knew it could never be with him. He was too selfish, thoughtless, or cruel, and love required so much more than what he was able to give.

            She woke with a start when he brushed away the unruly strands of hair from her face and, as expected, ready to make a mad dash for the door. Holding her hands was the only thing stopping her, keeping her here, on this chair where he now sat, so he could break her heart one more time.

            He held her hands tight as she sat perfectly still and listened as his words sank over her, heavy like stones, never once flinching or showing emotion, and begged her to say something - to argue, criticize him...anything would have been better than her silence. And, finally, her lips parted - lips he'd always wanted to kiss - pausing only briefly before she said the words he never expected, _Good-bye, Sherlock Holmes_.

            He couldn't believe it, how she stole his breath and left him reeling with ache. She left...she said _'good-bye,_ ' even though he convinced himself it was temporary...she just needed time. She disappeared, said nothing about where she went, and spoke with no one. Then, finally, after what seemed like endless arguments between he and John, she answered one of John's many texts, which gave new meaning to brevity...she'd gone on holiday and would be in touch when she returned. That was something, he supposed, she'd make her way back. In the mean time, apparitions of her were everywhere - in the lab, autopsy bay; he expected her to answer when he called, only to hear his number had been blocked.

            Week after week, at the end of long days busy with renovations, she'd appear in his thoughts, walking through the door of 221B saying she forgave him. Sometimes they would hug...because, isn't that what people do when they forgive? But, it never happened, no sign of her, until that one day, with Lestrade at St. Bart's, they rounded the corner to face each other, the first time since _that_ night. She changed. Her hair and clothes were different and there was a somberness, or stoicism, about her he'd never before seen. She didn't even let Lestrade finish talking before offering a quiet ' _excuse me'_ and walked away.

            She was doing it again...leaving. Returning to her home, the one she stayed away from, just as he stayed away from her. How had he not seen this coming and why did she always do this, toy with his well-organized mind, distract his train of thought, disprove his predictions conceived from logic and reason?

            It was an idea born from desperation, and the death of her grandfather, but he'd have to risk it...there was no other way. He grabbed John's mobile and sent a text - they'd be at Peter Wilcox's memorial service the following day. Of course she protested, he expected this much, but he also knew she'd give in and wouldn't use the memorial to make a scene. He at least deserved an explanation to her leaving...after all, couldn't she see he felt the weight of this sacrifice too? Why would she 'punish' him even more by leaving?

**~*~**

            John laughed at the ridiculousness of Sherlock's logic. "She's not punishing you, mate," he sighed, suppressing a scoff, and sat down in his newly reupholstered chair.

            "Why do you keep using the word mate? Is that suppose to make you sound younger, more hip?"

            "It means 'friend', dear," Mrs. Hudson chimed in, taping wallpaper swatches to the wall. "So the paper hangers know what goes where."

            "I know what it means, Mrs. Hudson. It...it sounds ridiculous." Sherlock paced the floor, stopping in front of the chair he picked up at the street market.

            "That's a lovely chair, Sherlock. More comfortable for you clients, too."

            "It's not for clients, Mrs. Hudson. I don't care if they're uncomfortable. It's for Molly...after she returns to London--"

            "I hate to keep saying this _mate_ ," John interrupted, emphasizing the word Sherlock disliked, "but Molly isn't coming back. _You_ saw to that."

            "It was a simple misunderstanding, John, one which we'll fix tomorrow."

            "Whoa! Did...did you just text Molly? With my phone?"

            "Yes. She's expecting us at the memorial service, early afternoon. Mrs. Hudson will be delighted to take Rosie for the day, won't you, Mrs. Hudson."

            "Oh, of course! Poor thing, do give her my love. Such a shame, but you boys being there will be nice--"

            John balled his fists and took in several deep calming breaths before interrupting. "No, Mrs. Hudson, it won't be nice. Molly doesn't want us there and we are not going. Sherlock. We're not going."

            "That would be rude, John, after I already told her we were coming. But, suit yourself. I'll see you in a day or two."

            "No. You're not going either." John pointed at Sherlock, then closed his eyes in search of something to convince him that he was on a collision course headed for disaster. "Let her be, Sherlock, she's been through enough."

            "I agree, John, which is why I'm going. Molly needs her friends...and I'm her friend."

**~*~**

            He never expected that an ending would become their beginning, that romantic entanglement would be the thing missing from his life, the one thing he was so sure he never wanted. But, Molly always got her way and, like a thief who sneaks through the night, she entered his carefully guarded world and rearranged him from the inside out. She would always win and he would never be the same.

            "Sherlock." Mycroft watched his brother, his patience growing thin, then gently tapped against his shoulder. "Sherlock!"

            "Hmm. What is it, Mycroft."

            "Oh, I don't know," Mycroft answered sarcastically. "But, perhaps you'd like to share with Doctor Watson and myself what's next. This is your plan, brother dear...I would have had it handled by now."

            Sherlock stood and stretched his back, taking care not to twist his aching shoulder. "Have you spoken with Lestrade?"

            "Not yet."

            "I have to arrange a few things with the Yard in Brighton...you haven't contacted them either?"

            "No, I've been waiting on you."

            "I'll text you the details," Sherlock answered, slipping his arms into the Belstaff. "Ready to go, John?"

            "Sherlock?"

            "What is it now, Mycroft?"

            "Have you spoken with her? Molly."

            "No." Sherlock's voice was distant, his hand paused on the doorknob, not yet wanting to think about the inevitable.

            "She's awake, eating...lightly, of course, even doing some walking. She'll be off her IV's tomorrow. She might want to hear from you."

            The memory of finding Molly on that cold, frosty morning, almost four days ago, abandoned and alone, barely alive, was forever burnt into Sherlock's mind. He could hardly wait to face down the monster that did this to her...but he dreaded looking into her eyes, knowing he came dangerously close to failing her...almost losing her once again. He wondered...how would she ever be able to forgive him?

            "Not yet, Mycroft. Not until this is over."


	19. The End of The Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to anyone living in England, or Shoreham-by-Sea. It's another area that looks absolutely lovely and where I would love to visit one day. Also, this hasn't been Brit checked, or legal checked, so ya gotta roll with it. Sorry. :(
> 
> This is a long chapter and not a very pleasant one at that. But, our villain isn't a very nice person. Also, the justice served is a bit morally gray and not always what we think it should be. It's fiction so, again, roll with it. Or not. ;)
> 
> Oh, the title and verse for this chapter comes from a song by Sting, End Of The Game. The prelude was originally released on his Brand New Day cd, but the full song was released later on down the road. It's about the traditional English fox hunt, with the male fox protecting the female, by distracting the hounds from their kill. It's quite lovely, especially with the Irish violins, if you feel the desire to check it out sometime.
> 
> Just another chapter or two to go and TMD 2 is done! So, on the chance I haven't said this enough - WOW - Thank You, each of you that have left comments and kudos, for reading and taking this very long journey with me. It's because of you that I've continued and I have no words that can adequately express my deep appreciation.  
> Much Love, P xoxo

 

** Chapter 19 **

The End of The Game

**~*~**

_And some saw her shadow_

_On the crest of a hill_

_When the hounds were distracted_

_Away from the kill..._

**~*~**

 

11 February 2016

11:58 PM

 

     A dense, icy fog was beginning to roll in off the English channel and, like the clouds that hovered the grounds on the isolated moor, Detective Inspector Mark Taylor, felt heavy from exhaustion as he drove through the sleepy neighborhoods of Shoreham-by-Sea. It had been a long and brutal day and all he wanted was to go home, drink a cold beer, and take a hot shower to wash away the misery.

     Relief swept through him as he turned onto Old Fort Road from Winterton Way and within a few more meters the round-a-bout drive his neighbor helped him put in last year. There's no way he could ever afford to buy a house like this, on Shoreham Beach, not on a copper's wages. But, he was grateful his father had the foresight to design and build something beautiful, while he was still in love with his mum, before he found out she was fucking the vicar, and baker...probably the candle stick maker, too.

     He was sick and tired of rehashing memories of this place, how at times it still reeked of his dying father, who never got over the betrayal from his mum. All that quiet bitterness had seeped into the walls like strands of gangrenous green, the putrid poison that sucked the life, and fun, out of everything.

     His dad had been dead going on four years, the consequence from too much gin for breakfast, stout ale at lunch, and the constant flow of scotch or whiskey for tea. Although at the end, he didn't care if he drank one hundred proof anything, as long as it left him unconscious. At least the old bastard had the good sense to kill himself over time with the good stuff, even if it ate away at him from the inside out. And, no matter how pathetic dear old dad's life had become, he never missed a day of work, or the opportunity to bring home an endless string of women, who always disappeared before sunrise. It was important for dad to sneak in the morning ritual of tears in the shower, over the woman who left him with an infant son, never to be seen again.

     Who the hell knew where his mum was, or if she was even alive, but he had to give it to her...at least he got her good looks. She was beautiful. Her thick, brown hair reminded him of a dark chocolate sauce poured over ice cream, although he wasn't sure why. That's how memories are, he supposed, ridiculous associations that connect one thing to another, even if some are best forgotten. Still, as a kid, he couldn't help himself, staring at her picture, making up stories about who she was and what she was doing. He'd run a finger over the pale skin of her face that had rose colored dots for cheeks, and big, golden brown eyes that reminded him of a wild animal...one that should be hunted and butchered for meat.

     Mark had no idea why he did this to himself...he should have those memories exorcised from the house, or at least sell the place, take the cash and run. Better yet, he could burn it down, and watch the fire consume everything, including his memories, while he collected the insurance and laughed all the way to the bank.

     He unlocked the glass doors at the side of the house, flipped on the light and consoled himself with the reminder that there were those who had it far worse than he did. Tossing his keys on the white counter, he thought of Sabby Heinschedetter, who was murdered earlier that morning – at the grocery market of all places. A young, mother of three precious boys - boys who were now orphaned - all down to some stupid, fucked up punk, in need of money for drugs. What a goddamn waste of life. But, tomorrow was going to be worse...word came down from London there was to be a big bust. Details were withheld and on a Need To Know basis. How the fuck was he suppose to organize his boys on a N2K? It was probably a heroin shipment, he thought, especially since the firearms unit was being called in. Fuck, he hated drugs and hated junkies even more.

     It was a rough business, being a cop, he scowled, glancing in the mirror at his graying hair. Maybe it wasn't too bad...the salt 'n' pepper shade gave him a rather distinguished look, even if he didn't look his age at forty-six. Katrina in records thought he looked hot and, damn, he loved tapping her redheaded pussy. She was a little bit kinky too, which gave her that - what do they call it - je ne sais quoi. Why she divorced her husband wasn't a question - he was an asshole and fucked around on her constantly. Then again, most cops were assholes, including private dicks. You had to be fucked up somewhere in the head to do this job. And, if you weren't, by the time you were ready for pension you most certainly would be.

     He tossed his badge, cuffs and the gun he wasn't suppose to carry on the table, and noticed the card he kept forgetting to post. "Goddamn it," he hissed under his breath at his idiocy. It was a card for Molly, Doctor Hooper, one she should have gotten by now, if he hadn't been so distracted with other things. Yeah, he signed the office one and chipped in for flowers, but for Christ sake, she was his forensic pathy for a few months and deserved something a little bit more personal. How the hell Sherlock Holmes found her was nothing short of miraculous, especially since that property had been searched countless times. Not only that, some little punks were busted in there a few weeks back and never heard a thing. Apparently, a lot had changed from his youth when people thought the place was haunted.

     He reached into the refrigerator to grab a cold beer, but stopped himself. After all, it wasn't every night he came home from work to discover an intruder waiting for him, hiding in the shadows, thinking he was clever and that his presence wouldn't be known. Unfortunately, for his uninvited guest, his cologne gave him away, Eau De Monsieur, even if it was faint. This called for something a little more special than beer, maybe a dram of Maker's Mark, neat. He reached into the liquor cupboard for the bottle and thought about asking his guest if he'd like one, too, but decided to wait and see if he was deserving.

     For half a moment, he considered getting his gun, but then realized it wouldn't be needed. The intruder didn't want to fight...he was here for a chat; needed someone to listen, maybe give him some answers to life's puzzling questions. While he was tired and didn't really want to encourage some pitiful soul, he could spare a moment or two. Although, just like the stupid punk who wasted his life murdering some fucking cunt, who whored her pussy for a house, car, and status, the intruder was wasting his time thinking some understanding could be gained.

     "It's your fault, you know," Taylor began, opening the sliding door off the kitchen to let in the cat. "Had you not gotten involved, it would have all been over...she never would have had to suffer. Of course, the ice storm didn't help, but can't fight the weather."

     Sherlock suppressed a growl.

     "Are you wondering how I know it's you?" Taylor poured a glass of bourbon, and squinted into the darkness at the tall figure hiding in the shadow.

     "Enlighten me," Sherlock answered, his voice low and threatening.

     "You're the famous detective."

     "True."

     He poured a second glass of bourbon for Sherlock then winked. "Although, it did take you over five weeks to find her. Miraculous. Here, let's toast to the little fox who got away."

     Taylor drank back the rich amber liquid, then looked at Sherlock. "What's a matter? I promise, I didn't poison you."

     "I'm not thirsty. For bourbon."

     Taylor walked past Sherlock and grabbed what looked like a remote carefully tucked away in a table drawer and returned to the kitchen for his drink. "What do you want Mr. Holmes? You can't wire our conversation, I'm a cautious man, but you probably already know that. So, you must have come to thank me...for keeping her alive." He added a bit more bourbon to his glass and slid the other in Sherlock's direction. "Let's have a seat and negotiate what's best for her future like gentleman."

     Taylor walked to the sitting room and turned on the lamps either side of the sofa and sat down, drink in one hand, the remote in the other.

     Sherlock quietly scoffed at the ridiculous charade he had to play out. He wanted it over...whatever it took to end this as quickly as possible. If he could slit Taylor's throat in the process it might make all of this more bearable. "Is that what we are? Gentleman," Sherlock answered calmly, refusing to sit.

     "At least I don't go breaking and entering into people's homes. Cheers!" Taylor offered a grimacing smile, then drank back the last of his bourbon.

     "Oh, no. You kidnap young women for slavery, and torture them for fun," the detective shrugged, putting his hands in the pockets of his coat.

     "Hey," Taylor snapped, pointing at Sherlock. "That's not fair! _They_ come to me and I give them what they want."

     "Like you gave Doctor Hooper what she wanted."

     Taylor leaned back into the couch and closed his eyes momentarily, shaking his head. He had always wanted to meet the 'great' Sherlock Holmes under better conditions. Not like when they first met, when he was desperate to find Molly, but maybe sometime in the future, when all of this was behind them. He rubbed his tired eyes and offered a sympathetic look.

     "No...she must never think that. She was different. Perfect even. But, then...I saw her with you in the papers...she had that look..."

     “What look was that?”

     “You ruined her.”

     "You did all of this because of a photograph in the tabloids."

     "I kept her alive," Taylor corrected him.

     "You left her to die."

     “Only because you interfered! If you had left it alone, she'd be gone, living in paradise.”

     “So, her investigation into the Hastings case--”

     “Hastings?" Taylor interrupted. "Don't be stupid, Sherlock. I had nothing to do with those women, I wasn't even born. Although, the one's who did were on to something. Truly, they're my inspiration. Their profit margins for adoption were enormous, set them up for life. Just because some little whores couldn't keep their legs closed. No, I started off in Hastings, but it's important to know when old cases are pulled. Invariably, someone always looks to the past when trying to figure out the present.”

     God, Sherlock wanted this to end. He spent over an hour arguing the details of his plan with Mycroft and Lestrade, who wanted to go in, take Taylor, and leave. But, it was Sherlock who convinced them they needed to get as much information as possible, in the one place Taylor felt safe, his home. John backed him on one condition - Sherlock not be given a gun.

     “Maiden Blue...Molly found out you never investigated her. You wrote dummy notes...never entered her into the Missing Person's data base, or INTERPOL.”

     “Ah, Betsy Mitchell. I liked her, even though she gave birth to another girl. It was a quick adoption, excellent profit, so I decided to spare Betsy, even had a buyer lined up. But, she was a runner, so Eggen took care of it...tied her to the back of the boat to teach her a lesson. I admit," Taylor sighed with disappointment. "He got a little carried away and she accidentally drown. He was stupid for cutting her loose that close to shore. You know how the currents are in the Channel. Don't think I didn't take it out of his cut.”

     "Mark. Joseph. Taylor. Did you make her call you 'Joey' like you did Sarah?”

     A look of surprised excitement fell over Taylor's face at the mention of her name. She was one of his firsts and a bit daft, but he did have fun while it lasted.

     “Sarah. Oh, I haven't thought about her in years. Stroke of luck there was a big rain storm that night. Washed away all the evidence.”

     “With your help, no doubt,” Sherlock sighed, suppressing the bile burning at the back of his throat.

     “I was young, still figuring things out. But, it's not good to dwell on the past. A lot has changed since then.”

     “I'm sure Sarah's family would find your sentiment comforting.”

     “Hey, I told you. They come to me! I didn't want her, I never wanted her, but...she wouldn't give up...begged for my attention. I never meant for her to die, stupid girl. I took a the hit, lost ten thousand American dollars on that bitch. Had to re-think my strategy about using over-eager Russians, too.”

     Taylor shrugged, taking another drink from the glass he poured for Sherlock, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You want something to eat? Too late to order a pizza, but I can pop one in the cooker?"

     Sherlock rolled his eyes, then loosen his scarf around his neck and unbutton his Belstaff.

     "Boring."

     "Boring? Jesus Christ!" Taylor jumped to his feet and paced furiously in front of Sherlock, rounding on him and shoving him into the wall. "Do have any idea what I have to do, what there is to manage, to make all this happen? And, you think it's boring!?"

     "I meant the pizza," Sherlock answered dryly.

     Taylor laughed quietly to himself, then nodded to Sherlock. "You're right. Pizza is boring. I got something better."

     Still chuckling to himself, Taylor grabbed the gun he left on the table, then pressed a sequence of buttons on the remote he'd been holding, so the wall opposite of him slid back to reveal a series of monitors with videos queued for each one. "You're going to love this."

     "What is this?" Sherlock asked calmly, although he could feel his heart race frantically at the thought of what he'd see.

    "Can't you guess? It's the Molly Show...best reality television there is. Hmm, I might be able to sell it...similar to snuff films. Now, watch carefully...keep watching...there...there she is...carried into her tomb, just like Sleeping Beauty, or so Eggen thought. Wait for it, because this part's good...just a couple more seconds...there! She's amazing, isn't she?," Taylor jumped to his feet, as though cheering on his favorite sport. "Look how she almost took out his eye and thought that maneuver, punching him in the ears, would take him down,” he laughed manically. "I mean, just look at him. Eggen is three times her size."

     It's odd, Sherlock thought, he never thought it possible that clenching one's jaw so tightly would crack a molar, but he was sure that just happened. His thoughts jumped to Charles Augustus Magnussen, and the repulsion he felt for that man's vile existence. Pulling the trigger to take his life was the last resort, but he made peace with his plan long before he walked into Appledore to barter for Mary's safety. A similar feeling washed over him now, only there was no peace to be made. His conscience was clear. Pulling the trigger would be easiest thing in the world, if only John had let him have a gun.

     He wanted his tooth to hurt because, maybe, that would distract his other pain watching Molly fight for her life, nearly escaping, only to be thrown across the room, broken and battered. And though he knew all of this was in the past, that she was safe and healing, he had never felt more powerless than he did in that moment. Oh God, the anxiousness and panic swelled, how would she ever forgive him for not finding her sooner...

("John, help me," Sherlock whispered, touching the ear mic, while Taylor was busy cackling. "I'm going to kill him.")

("Just a little more, Sherlock," John answered softly. "Keep him talking.")

     "It broke my heart to watch her fade, Sherlock, in so much pain. Look how he snapped her arm, dislocated her shoulder in the process. She stretched it out much longer than I expected, bandaging her wounds...did you see how she put her shoulder in place? Christ, that had to hurt. I have to say, I was impressed how she rationed the water and biscuits, slept most of the time, found ways to stay warm...all while fighting off rats. That was Eggen's idea. He put them in there to keep her company, or to nibble on her, not sure which...he's a bit touched in the head. But, see, she trained them to stay away from her. Ingenious. We were betting she'd eat them after they died but, apparently, she preferred starvation."

Taylor paused the video and went to the kitchen to pour himself another glass of Maker's Mark, then grabbed a handful of biscuit from the bright blue tin sitting on the counter.

    "I thought about taking her out of there," he sighed, walking back to the couch, biscuit crumbs falling from his mouth. "She deserved better...so perfect for my plans... Then, I'd listen to her talk to you - I suppose she was a bit delirious - and knew I'd never get her back. I waited eighteen years for this moment and you stole everything from me."

     “Wh...what...what plan?”

     “The vessel for my heir, of course. Others have tried...wasted effort, I'm afraid. I suppose it's because...he always wanted her. Molly. Of course she'd be useless afterward, far too old for anything else, but her sacrifice wouldn't have been in vain.

    "I will kill you."

     "And yet I'm the one with the advantage," he nodded toward the gun, taking it from the table, pointing it at Sherlock.

     “I prefer my hands,” Sherlock seethed, inching closer and closer to Taylor. “I look forward to snapping each of your bones, all two hundred and six...starting at the knees, so you can't run.”

     “You're funny, Mr. Holmes," Taylor laughed, standing. "Take one more step and I will shoot.”

     “You haven't done your research. I once killed a man, _Joey_. Shot him in the face, point blank. Never felt a thing.”

(“Sherlock,” John's voice echoed in his ear piece. “Stop.”)

     “This is your last warning, Mr. Holmes. I won't choose your face, though, it's too pretty. Like mine. How about I take out your heart.”

     Sherlock smiled, slowly stepping closer, daring Taylor to fire. “You think your little gun will stop me? There's a very long queue to end my life and you're at the rear.”

("Sherlock, stop." Only this time it was Mycroft's voice in his ear piece...a voice Sherlock chose to ignore.)

     “Say good-bye, Mr. Holmes. With you gone, who knows, maybe Molly can redeem herself. It'll be fun to try.”

     "I don't think so, Mr. Kincaid. Or, do I call you Enki? Sumerian, isn't it?” John Watson stepped into the room from around the corner, gun raised to Taylor's head, ready to shoot. "You alright, Sherlock?"

     "Give me the gun, John."

     "Who are you? W...where--" Taylor panicked, his eyes bulging.

     "The aftershave was Sherlock's idea...said you wouldn't notice anyone else...too busy focused on him. He was right. Oh, my apologies. John Watson. It's not every day I hold a gun to the head of Lord of the Scum,” John said calmly, reaching around Taylor to take his gun. “Pity about your temple in Segres, burnt to the ground. Just couldn't stop the women from having a bit of fun.”

     “How dare you--”

     “John, the gun, give it to me,” Sherlock insisted, not taking his eyes of Taylor.

     “Mycroft. Greg...could use a bit of help. Now, please,” John urged, his voice slightly raised as he kept an eye on both Taylor and Sherlock.

     "Mark Joseph Taylor, you're being taken into custody by Order of The Crown and placed into a secure facility...for the rest of your sick, unnatural life," Lestrade announced, stepping into the room, his gun drawn on Taylor.

     "Lestrade," Mark sneered. "You can't do this. Nothing here is admissible. It's entrapment. There's no proof. Those videos were sent to me privately, by an anonymous source."

     "Interesting language, Enochian," Sherlock began, "I once wrote a paper on John Dee...always thought the alphabet of angels would make an interesting code, if you knew what to look for. Fortunately, I do."

     And then there were four, as Mycroft Holmes casually walked into the room. No gun, just a silly old umbrella he casually waved about.

     "Yes, very good, Sherlock," he sighed. "I'm Mycroft Holmes, by the way, Sherlock's older brother. As a boy, and for a brief spell, my dear brother found it amusing to complete his school work in Enochian. Naturally, it annoyed his teachers, but fascinated our parents. He was always such a precocious child."

     "There's no court that will find me guilty...no place on Earth you can hold me," Taylor spit, fighting against the handcuffs that tightly held his wrists behind his back.

     "Quite right. And, as it happens, there's a special place reserved for you. It's called 'hell' by those who live there, so you should feel right at home. If you're curious, while avoiding capture, you had an unfortunate plane crash over the ocean. Pity your body was never recovered. I suppose that will provide some measure of comfort to all the families of young women, children you've murdered or injured. Of course, no one will ever question that you were fleeing the country, given what's been found in your home. But, then, you know all about making people disappear."

*******

*****

*****

 

     The arrest was quiet and Mark Joseph Taylor was taken from his home, hidden by the thick of fog. He left in a convoy of three British Security vehicles, heavily sedated, for London, then a flight to Sherrinford.

     Lestrade stayed behind, with several security officers, making sure no other prints than those belonging to Taylor would be found. After thirty minutes, he would make a call to Taylor's superior officer, citing a search and arrest warrant based upon a statement given by Doctor Molly Hooper, as well as informing her Taylor was no where to be found.

     At some point in the early morning hours, more evidence would be found that Taylor, a seasoned pilot, charted a plane to Lisbon, but due to instrument failure, as well as dense fog, crashed somewhere over the Atlantic. Pieces of his plane would be found over the next several weeks.

     It was a list that would rock England's citizens, as well as her humanity. One hundred and twenty three young women were eventually deciphered from Taylor's records, one of the largest kidnapping and human trafficking schemes in British history. Families were notified of those who had died, and searches conducted for those still missing. Twenty-five adoptions were conducted over Taylor's criminal career and presented the courts with Tort case filings and law suits of which there was no recent precedence.

     As for Sherlock, he insisted on accompanying Taylor's transfer to Sherrinford, but met with equal insistence to the opposite from Mycroft.

     "That's for you and John," Mycroft said, pointing his umbrella to the black sedan at the end of the street. "Go home, Sherlock. Go to your wife. I mean, Doctor Hooper."

     "Wife," John said, sliding his cold hands into the pockets of his jacket. "That's the second time that word's slipped out."

     Sherlock sighed heavily, giving Mycroft one final stare, before turning toward the car waiting for him. "I told you before, John, we're not married."

     "You sure?" John asked jokingly, following behind. "Maybe you forgot. You used to have conversations with me, when I was gone for days."

     "I did ask. What she thought about it."

     John slid onto the soft leather seats, along side Sherlock, appreciating the warmth from the cold mist and fog. "Wow. Really? What'd she say?"

     "It's a discussion."

     "About what," John laughed. "Sherlock---"

     "How 'bout some dinner. I know an all night chip stand off the A23. I helped the owner off a robbery charge years ago, just out of University. Hungry?"

     "Definitely, but about that proposal...," John continued, as the car drove into the fog, heading home to London and back to Molly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I've had a few questions about who "He" is, when Mark Taylor tells Sherlock "He always wanted her" while explaining the 'vessel for his heir' - I've decided to answer it here. "He" refers to Mark's personification of 'Enki' - believing he (Mark) has imbued himself with God-like powers. It's as simple as that.
> 
> Serial killers and many times escalating rapists (and even fetishists) - in this case Mark Taylor is both - go through 7 stages of psychological phenomenon:
> 
> 1: Aura Phase (or dissociative state) - This is where the person withdraws from reality (although no one around them notices, as the predator continues with their regular activities) and lose any meaning for life. They begin to form violent fantasies, along with the urge to act upon them. In some cases, the individual doesn't even know this is happening as a sort of split is formed in their day-to-day reality. There are documented cases of a few people who had no idea they were actually serial killers, or at least not in the beginning. Later, they began experiencing nightmares, which then led to the memories of what they had done.
> 
> 2: Trolling phase: Searching for victims, who usually have identifying markers that have meaning for the predator. In the case of Mark Joseph Taylor, all the women, with the exception of Sarah, look like his absent mother. 
> 
> 3: Wooing phase: This is when the predator has chosen their intended victim, then makes a conscious effort to get to know them and earn their trust. It's important to know that not all serial killers or rapists do this. Only a highly organized predator is able to pull this off. Think of people such as Ted Bundy, or Jeffrey Dahlmer, who gained trust from their victims. Mark Joseph Taylor, 'Joey', did this with Sarah, and all his victims, who were young, vulnerable and highly impressionable.
> 
> 4: Capture phase. Pretty much self-explanatory. 
> 
> 5: Murder Phase, self-explanatory as well. 
> 
> 6: Totem phase - As the thrill of the kill, or crime, dissipates, the predator takes / needs some kind of souvenir as a reminder, especially when an emotional pick-me-up is needed. Although, eventually, it's never enough. 
> 
> 7: Depression Phase - This is an anti-climatic moment for the predator as they begin to realize their fantasy was not properly fulfilled, or did not serve its intended purpose. Suicidal ideology is heightened and for those who don't kill themselves, the cycle begins all over again.


	20. The Book of Love

Chapter 20

 

**The Book of Love**

 

_The book of love is long and boring_

_and written very long ago,_

_It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes_

_And things we're all too young to know._

Peter Gabriel

 

 

 

 

12 February 2016

5:30 AM

 

     Molly Hooper sat quietly in the lounge chair, along side the hospital bed, where sheets and blankets had been stripped only a few moments previous. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap and, as she looked down at them, managed a shy smile at the pale pink polish Meena insisted matched the glow from her cheeks.

     The television volume was low, but she really didn't need to hear what was being said. The bright red scroll at the bottom of the screen, touting the words: ' _Breaking News_ ,' was enough to capture her attention, as well as the nurse who stood along side her.

     "Are you sure you want to keep watching this, honey?" Nurse Jillian was Molly's favorite, and didn't tip-toe around her, or what happened, like the other staff. She lightly tapped Molly on the shoulder, motioning her sit forward, then placed a small, lavender scented pillow behind her back. "You actually worked with that man," she remarked, the disgust in her voice was unmistakable.

     "Yes," Molly answered softly. "For almost two months."

     "My god," she sighed, as both she and Molly fixed their eyes to the screen.

 

_"We continue now with this morning's breaking news: Sherlock Holmes, the famous Consulting Detective, responsible for the recovery of Doctor Molly Hooper, a forensic pathologist who mysteriously went missing earlier this year, has also solved the shocking details behind her abduction. Let's go now to Joshua Browne, in Brighton. Joshua."_

 

_"Thank you, Diana. Behind me is the lovely and beautiful village of Shoreham-By-Sea, home to pristine beaches, fine restaurants, and along Old Fort Road, million dollar homes. But, in all it's beauty, no one ever suspected that inside this home lived a madman, allegedly responsible for the abduction and murder of an undetermined number of young women, some children, for the purpose of human trafficking, sexual slavery and black market adoptions. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, from the London Yard, is with me for details."_

_"At 3:35 AM, a search and arrest warrant was issued for Mark Joseph Taylor, the primary suspect in the abduction of Doctor Molly Hooper, as well as the 1993 kidnapping and murder of Sarah Jane Brigham."_

 

     Molly continued to sit quietly, shivering against the cold leather chair, tears streaming down her cheeks, as she tried to make sense of the dissonance that flowed from the television.

 

_"Detective, are you able to give us any more details at what led Sherlock Holmes to suspect Mark Taylor? He was a decorated police officer, was he not?"_

 

_"As you know, Mr. Holmes is responsible for the recovery of Doctor Hooper, and continues to collaborate with Scotland Yard regarding our ongoing investigation. That's all I can say for now."_

 

_"Detective, one more question. Has an arrest been made?"_

 

_"I'm sorry, no more comments."_

 

_"Thank you, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Diana, although it has yet to be confirmed, it's my understanding that Mark Joseph Taylor, a former police inspector with the Brighton Yard, is missing, presumably fled, resulting in a nation-wide manhunt. Until his capture, I'm sure we'll all feel safer keeping our doors and windows locked. I'm Joshua Browne, Shoreham-by-Sea. Back to you, Diana."_

 

     Nurse Jillian pressed the mute button on the remote, then took a tissue from the box on the nightstand, passing it to Molly. "He was here, you know," she said cheerfully, laying a fresh blanket on the back of Molly's chair.

     "What?" Molly stifled a gasped, panic rising in her chest, believing Nurse Jillian meant Mark Taylor.

     "Sherlock Holmes. He sat with you the whole night, in that chair. Wouldn't leave. After you first woke up, Doctor Chaudhary had to give him the boot so he could examine you. Afterward, Sherlock came right back in here. Poor lamb, you couldn't stay awake."

     "I...I don't remember," Molly whispered.

     "Can't imagine you would, with everything that's happened. But, afterward, he left with Doctor Watson. Now we know what they were doing," she smiled, shaking out a fresh sheet over the bed. "They found the bloody bastard that did this to you. This is going to thrill my youngest boy, Robbie. He adores Sherlock Holmes...thinks he's a proper super hero. Of course he's not, but it does make you wonder..."

     "Wonder what?"

     "You know, they aren't like most men, are they, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. They do things most people can't do, or solve mysteries the police can't. Well, he even found you, didn't he? Just you wait, Doctor Hooper, one day those two men will be a legend our grandchildren will talk about." Nurse Jillian fluffed the last pillow on the bed, then turned around before leaving. "I'm just going to get your breakfast tray. You've got eat something before you leave. Doctor's orders."

     Nurse Jillian returned a few minutes later with Molly's breakfast...tea, a small tomato juice, oatmeal, and one poached egg. Molly sipped her tea, then pushed the tray aside. She tried eating her oatmeal, but worry for Sherlock twisted her stomach, leaving her anxious and uncertain.

     She brushed her teeth again, an act she never fully appreciated beyond the dental health benefits, until she couldn't do it for over five weeks. She also liked that the new lip gloss Meena bought her tasted of Rosemary and mint, and blended nicely with the aftertaste of her mouthwash. Granted, they were small things, silly things really, but ones she now treasured and didn't think she'd ever stop appreciating.

     Standing in front of the full length mirror in the bath, Molly gave herself another go over. It was a nice dress Meena bought her. But, then, Meena always had lovely taste...far better than her own. Still, the mid-thigh navy sweater dress, made more sense than slacks...it didn't accentuate how much weight she lost, or that her breasts were now even smaller than before. The black tights and knee high boots looked nice, too. She felt comforted, warm and safe.

     Geoffrey, Meena's stylist, showed up the previous night to give her a "fresh new look" - although Molly swore it was going to take an order from the Queen to get him on the heavily guarded floor, since he wasn't on Sherlock's "approved visitor's" list. It wasn't until she told the 'staff' she would check herself out, leave a day early against doctor's orders, that they gave in...as long as two guards - probably Mycroft's men - remained in attendance. It was an easy compromise and one she enjoyed, especially when it came to selecting a new shade of brown and highlights for her hair. The short guard, who she called 'Mr. Smith' since he refused to give his real name, chose her haircut...long soft layers, and lose fringe along her face. Molly smiled remembering he said it brought out her eyes and cheekbones.

     Her release from the hospital was anticipated and whether it was vanity or the fact she refused to look the part of a victim, she didn't want to stand in front of reporters, giving her brief statement, feeling vulnerable and more self-conscious. It might be 'smoke and mirrors' she thought to herself, but the new dress and hair gave her the temporary courage she needed, especially in Sherlock's absence.

     It was now half past six and after packing, then re-packing her small bag several times, Molly walked around the room, taking in all the flowers and cards wishing her well. She knew most of people, or at least had an idea of who they were, but one still puzzled her...a single, yellow rose tinged with pale pink at the top of its petals, and only a 'W' engraved on a fine linen card to identify its sender. For the life of her, she didn't know who it was from...nor did anyone else. Molly had already decided to donate all the flowers to other wards in the hospital, with the exception of the rose. She was taking it with her to press between the pages of a book, as a reminder of an unknown friendship. After all, isn't that what a yellow rose stood for?

     The sky was turning a lighter shade of dark blue, with wisps of pink streaked along the horizon, and a single cloud in the shape of a heart. Stars were fading in the morning glow, the moon disappeared, and Molly hugged herself tightly, wondering if she was ready for all the Firsts that would come next. They would be strung together, like shiny new pearls, one after the other, patiently awaiting her arrival. Within a few hours, she would step into the sunlight, the First time since her abduction. The return to St. Bart's and her career - also the First time. Her home in East Dean, a First she pushed from her mind. But, the one she was most eager, and where she hadn't even noticed the holding of breath, was to set her eyes upon Sherlock. How, she wondered, would she ever be able to thank him for saving her life...for not giving up on her, after she had long given up on herself?

     Molly was startled from her thoughts when she saw his silhouette, lit from behind, like the tall, freestanding cardboard cutouts of actors found at the cinema. Closing the door, he moved toward her, slow and deliberate, speaking her name softly. And, though she practiced this moment at least a dozen times, and promised herself she'd tell him she was okay, her efforts became lost as she struggled for breath in a flood of uncontrollable tears.

     Sherlock's heart ached as he reached out for Molly, wrapping her tightly in his strong arms, placing desperate kisses upon her head, smelling the perfume of her shampoo, the sweet freshness of her skin and for a brief moment, the world seemed to slow down. Time stopped and all the fear, anxiousness and guilt that bit at his heels, slipped from his mind, bringing the peace of surrender. He felt her sobs tremble against his chest, and her knees weaken, causing her body to slide down his. If the floor is where she needed to go, he would go with her - he would follow her anywhere, refusing to ever let go again.

     "I'm...so...sorry...Sherlock." Molly's weeping left her words strangled tightly in her throat, hitching for breath, shaking and grasping his coat for buoyancy to keep from drowning.

     Sherlock was careful as he cupped her face between his hands, wiping away the tears that bled with inky mascara, streaking her pale skin. It wasn't the time, or maybe even the place, but he couldn't stop himself from placing a tentative kiss on her quivering lips, allowing his own to remember how they felt...soft, warm, and supple. She pulled away, hiccuping through tears, and tried to smile.

     Her hands touched his face, tenderly stroking the dark, overgrown whiskers and looked into his tired eyes, sad and pooled with tears. "Can...you...ever...forgive me?"

     His mind struggled to understand her meaning, or how she would ever believe she would need his absolution. "Forgive you?" Sherlock pulled Molly's forehead into his neck, drawing his hands slowly on her back, his long fingers tangled in her hair. His voice was a low whisper, but he could swear it echoed off the walls, like the buzzing of bees, as a reminder of his frailty. "I should have never let you go...stopped you...how will you ever forgive me for not finding you sooner?"

     "No...no...it's my fault, Sherlock," Molly suddenly pulled away, shaking her head. "I meant to tell you...I just forgot." She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand, her eyes pleading with him to listen.

     "I knew something was wrong...things weren't making sense," she began, her voice steadying with each word. "That morning...after we spoke, I was going to work from home...but there were things missing from his notes, the autopsy date was wrong, the report left out things I found on her body. So I...uh...I...hacked his account, Sherlock...it was all lies. She, he called her Maiden Blue, was never entered into the missing persons data base. The official autopsy said she drown in a boating accident...there was never an investigation." Molly grabbed a tissue to wipe her nose, and took in a deep breath. The words spilled from her as though they'd been pressurized for too long and burst open from the long awaited release. "Why would he do that? Why would he lie? So...I, uh, did a search...and there were others, missing women, girls...and it was odd, because there was a pattern...."

     Sherlock listened as Molly spoke rapidly, her eyes darting back and forth, recalling memory, with the insistent need to tell him everything before it faded from her thoughts. He felt a sick churning in his stomach remembering what Mark Taylor said, how he flagged records so he would know when files were being looked into, and who was looking into them. It wouldn't be difficult to figure out _who_ hacked his account, or why. Still, listening to her was like watching a horror movie that he'd seen before. He knew what was going to happen, and when, but he couldn't stop the mounting anxiousness, the tightening of his muscles or labored breathing when expectation moved to its frightening climax. She was taken from her home...a place where she once felt loved, at ease and safe.

     "He...murdered Sarah?" Molly asked, her eyes brimming with tears.

     Sherlock nodded somberly and would never find, or want, the courage to tell Molly she had been Taylor's intended victim.

     "Did he really flee?" Her voice deepened as she asked, although it wasn't really a question.

     This he would answer honestly, whatever she needed to know. "No."

     "Is he alive?"

     "Yes. I think so."

     Molly released a stifled laugh. "Did you try to kill him?"

     "My efforts were thwarted."

     "Where is he?"

     "Sherrinford. There won't be a trial."

     Molly nodded her understanding, slipped her hands into Sherlock's, bringing them to her lips. "Thank you for finding me."

     "I was so afraid I'd never see you again," Sherlock began, staring at their hands, perhaps noticing for the first time, how small and delicate hers were along side his. Yet, the faint bruising on those small hands quickly reminded him how she fought for her life, against an evil that wanted to destroy her. She depended upon him to be her friend, lover and protector, and he would forever carry the weight of betraying the trust she placed in him. "All the things I never told you...or haven't done...I've never bought you flowers...made you tea, or finished telling you how sorry I am for the times I was thoughtless. I would never be able to make you my wife, or tell you that I am desperately lost without you." Sherlock stopped, holding his breath, wanting to push away the grief he stored over endless weeks of worry and self-doubt. But, his tears stung like the bitterness born from regret, and he buried his face in her neck, holding her so tight he worried she might break. "I haven't told you nearly enough that I love you."

     "Sherlock," Molly whispered, placing one soft kiss after another on his neck, in his tangled mess of curls, his face, forcing him to look at her. "You saved me. You kept me alive...and I would be desperately lost without you, too."

     It felt like the light-headedness from spinning too fast, or the quietness that settles around you when walking through a forest, far away from the sounds of the busy, mechanized world. Everything disappeared when Sherlock kissed her...tenderly placing fingers beneath her chin, bringing her lips to his. He was her anchor when she felt lost, untethered. But, in his arms she was safe, and whatever they had to face, they were stronger together then they ever would be separately.

     "Ready to go home?" Sherlock asked, his forehead resting against Molly's, as the faint crumbs of sunrise scattered over them like droplets of gold.

     "We're both a mess." Molly suppressed a chortle as Sherlock helped her to stand, planting another small kiss on her cheek. "It tickles...your beard."

     "It's going...itches like hell. Got everything?" He asked, grabbing Molly's small bag, moving toward the door.

     "Oh, wait. I donated all the flowers, but I want this one." Molly went to the table across the room and took the thin, blown glass vase, with a single rose. "I have no idea who it's from, but it's beautiful. Yellow...it means friendship, I think."

     Sherlock turned the linen card over to see the familiar engraved 'W,' causing a crooked, ironic smile. "I know who it's from and I promise, I'll tell you everything, once we get home."

     Molly stopped Nurse Jillian in the hall and handed her a press statement for Doctor Chaudhary. "Thank you for taking care of me," she said, giving the nurse a grateful hug. "I know Doctor Chaudhary is good with press conferences and, maybe, he won't mind."

     Nurse Jillian smiled, patting Molly's arm. "You two know each other then, eh? Take the staff elevator down that corridor. No one will see you sneak off." She felt happy watching Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes walk down the quiet hall, knowing she was in safe hands and that, sometimes, the brightest things are born out of our darkest hours.

     Molly smiled as Sherlock placed his arm around her shoulder, and led her in the direction of the elevator. "What was that about?" He asked.

     "I promise, I'll tell you everything, once we get home. Home...?" The panic in Molly's voice was unmistakable, which Sherlock was quick to ease.

     "Let's go home to Baker St. Oh, by the way," he said, pushing the bright white down button, "You should know...my parents are in town."

     "Your parents?" Molly beamed.

     "They'd like to meet you, sometime, when you're ready, of course."

     "I'd love to meet them, Sherlock. I'm fine. Really."

     "Also, my mother, her name," he cleared his throat, "Is Margaret."

     "It is? Lovely. Oh. Ohhhh..." Molly's eyes widened with understanding.

     "Yes," Sherlock answered dryly.

     "Sherlock, never...you know," Molly tossed him a serious look.

     "No, never."

     "Because, that would be..."

     "Very weird," Sherlock agreed, guiding Molly into the elevator, the doors closing on their laughter.

 


	21. Dear Diary

Chapter 21

**_Dear Diary_ **

**_~*~_ **

_I walked out this morning_  
_It was like a veil had been removed from before my eyes_  
_For the first time I saw the work of heaven_  
_In the line where the hills had been married to the sky_  
_And all around me every blade of singing grass_  
_Was calling out your name and that our love would always last._

_~*~_

                                      

Dear Diary,

            It's been an age since you and I have sat down together, sharing tea or coffee, discussing life as we know it. I've had some reluctance, you see, allowing my pen to have its way with your paper. My best friend has encouraged me, quietly, to continue to write...in spite of my ongoing resistance. Each month, for over half a year, one of you would show up quietly, the giver no where in sight, like the cat who sneaks a mouse into the house, proud of it's conquest, but then disappears. And, each time, although very much _unlike_ the mouse, I'd tuck the new one of you on the shelf, telling myself, 'maybe later.'

            I'm not sure what's different about you, though. You're pretty, but so are the others, who patiently wait to for their intended purpose to be fulfilled. Of course you wouldn't know, I haven't written one word since...and I'm afraid if I start, I won't be able to stop. But, the truth is, I've missed our time together. Long conversations with you as my willing conspirator in maintaining my secrets, sharing what delights and frightens me. And reconciling two lives, everything that took place before, and all the things that take place after.

            My super hero, as nurse Jillian once called him, is my compass north and his words have become my touchstone: _“What do you need to feel safe?”_ It is the life rope that wraps its gentle tendrils around my heart, pulling my memories from the perils of quicksand, and has me look forward, reminding me I'm in charge and get to decide which way to turn.

            I recently caught my best friend reading from the diary of when we parted company, thinking we'd gone the distance and now moved our separate ways. Of course, it took some time for me to get passed the mortification of my private thoughts no longer private but, given the circumstances, it was a bit easier to put things into perspective. So, I asked him...

 

~*~

            “Looking for something you missed?”

            “No,” he answered unabashed. “Reading the story of us.”

            “Can't get enough of the melodrama and angst?” I knew this wasn't the first time he read my diary. It's pages were dog-eared, there were smudge marks where his hands had rested in search for answers, and the book had several places where it fell open naturally, the tell-tale signs where he read the most.

            He released a long sigh and shrugged. “I have a mind palace, you have a diary. I have rooms, dungeons, where I'd rather not venture too often. You have corridors of moments, ones I've overlooked, or dismissed their importance. I hope you don't stop writing, Molly. I'd hate to miss a thing.”

            “What? The cat puking a hairball on the bed?” Although I really wanted to ask if he had a moat as well.

            “Especially that. Speaking of petty annoyances, let's get a dog. I've always wanted one, or two. I hear they're good at feeding under the table.”

            “Don't think I missed that cleverly hidden pun, Mr. Holmes.”

            “Oh, I don't think you miss anything, Mrs. Holmes.”

            “Ah, so lovely.” Mrs. Hudson stood at the doorway, bringing Sherlock's tea – a habit that in spite of any outward complaining, she enjoyed immensely. “I never thought I'd see the day you'd become domestic, Sherlock. Not you, of course, Molly dear. You've always seemed normal, although I'm not sure about that green juice you're drinking”

            “Normal,” Sherlock began, “is not necessarily a virtue, although in Molly's case there are one or two appealing attributes.” Loosening the tie of his best house coat, he sat in his chair, patiently waiting for Mrs. Hudson to pour his tea, drop two sugar cubes unceremoniously into the steaming liquid, before adding a touch of cream.

            “Thank you, Sherlock,” I bemused, “for your stellar insight of my outstanding qualities.”

            “You have many fine qualities, Molly--”

            “Speaking of which,” Mrs. Hudson interrupted. “I wasn't going to say anything, but--”

            “And, yet, you can't resist.” Sherlock took a careful sip of his morning tea.

            “You two might keep it a bit quiet at night. Really, at my age, I thought the ceiling was going to come down on me!” she added ruefully.

            Maybe not so much as changed, as I stood in horror, my mouth agape at where her _'I wasn't going to say anything'_ was actually leading. “Oh, no! Mrs. Hudson, it's not what you think!”

            “She'll think whatever she wants, Molly. She normally does.” Sherlock threw her a wide, knowing smile, then just as quickly frowned.

            “I'm not in the mood for your cheek, young man.”

            “Mrs. Hudson, really, it...it wasn't, well, you know, what you were thinking. I'd been teaching Rosie about numbers and colors, with my old Twister game.”

            “I remember that game...so much fun...” she smiled, her eyes drifting off into some unknown memory.

            “Yes, well, I was showing Sherlock how it's a useful teaching tool, even though Rosie's legs and arms can't stretch that far. And, you see, he wanted to demonstrate something ridiculous and...hurt himself.”

            “So that's why you're walking funny?”

            “I'm afraid so. It's a 'game' for shorter people.”

            “Whatever you say, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson winked, then quickly changed the subject. “Tomorrow's the big night, then. Are you all ready?”

            For a moment, I'd forgotten we'd be leaving in a few hours for East Dean to finish any final preparations.

            “It's just a regular night, Mrs. Hudson. With food...and people,” Sherlock grumbled, never wanting attention drawn to sentiment, which he secretly liked – alone, in his mind palace.

            “I wish I could have been there. It sounded so lovely and romantic.”

            “And not crowded,” Sherlock muttered to himself.

            “Married...”

            “Yes, and life goes on. Isn't there something you've got to do, Mrs. Hudson?”

            “Back in my day, when people married in a hurry, it was usually because,” her voice lowered to a hush, “ _pregnancy._ ”

            “I'm not pregnant, Mrs. Hudson.”

            “Yes, I know, dear. You got your hands full with Sherlock.” And with that, Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs.

            No matter how he acted, or his sudden onset of impatience, Sherlock dearly loved Mrs. Hudson. The warmth and care between them was unmistakable. “One day, Sherlock, she'll be a memory and you'll miss every bit of this.”

            “Today's not that day, Molly.” His eyes became distant, almost sad. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves.”

~*~

 

            Sherlock and I married during what was thought to be a quick trip to southern France, where a distant relative of his mother willed some paintings. We had left the solicitor's office after making the shipping arrangements, then walked off the beaten path, down a narrow street, to Le Bistrot d'à Côté, for coffee and maybe something to eat. We sat on the terrace, Sherlock enjoying something deliciously sweet after a meal of delicately cooked prawns in a white wine sauce, talked of an old case, when he stopped mid-sentence.

            “I think it's time, don't you?”

            “I'm sorry,” I asked, sneaking a bite of the rich, creamy pastry, not understanding.

            “Us...here seems quite nice.”

            “You mean...?”

            “Yes.”

            “Doesn't that...take time, papers...all kinds of legal things. Even John and Yoko had to wait,” I added jokingly.

            He smiled softly, the one that melts my heart and leaves my knees weakened, which is why I was so happy to be sitting down.

            “Does it matter?” he smiled, his voice smooth and low.

            “No. It really doesn't.” He left me breathless. Marriage was simply an outward declaration of what we had privately agreed to and known for a very long time.

            “John and Yoko," he added with a wink, "didn't know Mycroft. I'll see what he can do.”

~*~

            On the 21st of September 2016, we drove to a farmhouse built among fields of grain and flowers, where a plump, but cheery vicar, his wife and four children, excitedly gathered 'round, eager to witness our vows. Anything Sherlock could have said, I already knew. Likewise, anything I would say, he already knew. Our bond was forged in strands of imperceptible moments, long before we knew what would unfold, each one leading us here, with these lovely people, my troubadour at ease and me beginning to blubber like a silly fool in love.

~*~

            “Did you ever think, Molly,” Sherlock began to ask.

            “No, I didn't.” I answered, before he continued, knowing full well his meaning.

            “We do,” he said, quite proud of himself, looking at the vicar placidly, with me nodding in agreement.

~*~

            And, that, dear diary, was our promise to one another...We Do this life together. The vicar and his wife looked at each other, no doubt confused by our brevity, but smiled in their dawning acquiescence. Sometimes there are no words for how people love one another, or the depth of devotion and commitment. Maybe it's enough to recognize that it exists, extend kindness, offer each other the best of ourselves, choose our words thoughtfully, and when we make mistakes – which we will – learn the true nature of forgiveness. Perhaps that's where love grows best, in those easy moments that drift by on lazy days, a walk to a French cafe for coffee, a farmhouse in the middle of a field, and most of all, when our faith is shaken and all seems lost, we look to those who tenderly hold our hearts.

            We stayed at the farm, for a few hours, where the vicar was happy to share the embonpoint, ripe juiciness of grapes turned into a smooth Bordeaux, his wife's extraordinary skill at gastronomy and bread baking, and four curious children with bright eyes, laughing smiles, bringing us gifts of hand picked flowers, rocks from the stream and, my favorite one of all, a fat, green frog.

            Sherlock studied the frog in my hand as we climbed into the car to leave. “You can't take the frog, Molly.”

            “Why ever not? He's a wedding present.”

            “I don't think he'd be happy in your suitcase and he doesn't have a passport.”

            “Hmm,” I considered thoughtfully, wondering if he could be snuck through customs. “You're right. But, let's pull further away, I don't want the children to see. Besides...” I mused out loud, although not intending to.

            “Besides?”

            “Well, I already kissed a frog and it just so happens he turned out to be a rather wonderful prince.”

            “Hmm. You think I'm a prince.”

            “You mean, you think I'm talking about _you_.”

            “Who else would you be talking about?”

            “So, you _do_ think you're a frog, turned prince?”

            “There are no documented cases of transfiguration.”

            “That you know of.”

And, with that, he became silent.

~*~

 

            Admittedly, there was a bit of disappointment when we returned from Provence, and those closest to us knew we married. I never took Mycroft for a snitch, nor did I believe him when he said _“I never meant...it was a slip of the tongue.”_ His 'slip of the tongue' led to mournful looks, a few happy tears (if not shock) from Sherlock's mother along with Nan saying, ' _I always dreamed about your wedding in the garden.'_

            John's elation was unmistakable, as he pulled Sherlock into a bone crushing hug, although I swear there was something else in his eyes...maybe a twinge of hurt from feeling 'left out', or the reminder that he, too, once shared a promise for a long and happy future with someone he deeply loved.

            I notice things like this now, small glances or looks, ones where words would become stifled and lose meaning. It was in their faces, joy mixed with disappointment, as though their expectation had finally been realized. In some ways, Sherlock is a brazen attention hound...he seeks the spotlight, adores the genuflection for what he's created, even though he stands staunch and reticent. But, in all other ways, he is deeply private, protective of the shiny armor that hides a fragile heart, fearing it laid bare before the scrutiny of others. If I had asked, he would have set aside any considerations and walked into battle to stand at an altar, before a room full of people, reciting his practiced words of commitment and love. But I rather like the moved and inspired man, who grabbed my hand and said _'Let's do it now._ '

            Still, looking into the eyes of those who loved us, knowing far too intimately the sorrows we've all shared, I wanted to give them a measure of happiness if I was able. _"We're planning a reception!"_ I announced, resulting in happy cheers, relieved hugs and the excited chatter of Margaret and Nan huddled together, talking about their favorite bakeries for wedding cakes and Sherlock's insatiable love of sweets. It also garnered me an uncertain glare from my husband... _my husband_...the word felt strange rolling through my mind, although I liked it very much.

~*~

_“So, this is how it's going to be now? You plan things without speaking to me first?”_

“Probably.”

_“Thought so.”_

“If it really bothers you I can cancel.”

_“Everyone will blame me.”_

“Probably.”

_“We wouldn't want that.”_

“We've survived worse.”

_“Yes, but John would be disappointed.”_

“Very much so.”

_“Maybe it won't be that bad.”_

“Probably not. You don't have to come, you know.”

_“That would be rude.”_

“Yes, but just pointing out an option.”

_“No need, Molly. I can adapt.”_

“If you're sure. Because--”

_“We'll need caterers. Probably music, because people like that, adds to the mood. Linens...I know how to fold serviettes.”_

“You do.”

_“Yes. In different shapes. I learned for a case, actually--”_

“No, you didn't. I heard the story.”

_“Hmm. What colors do you like?”_

“We need colors?”

_“Mary chose lilac.”_

“It's autumn, Sherlock. Color is all around us.”

_“Fair point.”_

“Anything else you'd like?”

_“Where? Baker St is too small, as is your place.”_

“The new house?”

_“We've barely moved in. Renovations aren't finished.”_

“They're almost done. We can have it in the garden...build a bonfire--”

_“You remember what happened the last time there was a bonfire.”_

“Yes, I do...”

_“Bonfire it is.”_

~*~

            So, here we are, and how we got here. Almost. Perhaps with more time I would have been able to adjust, but then I realized, the time we have is precious and, maybe, the decision was for the best. I loved my childhood home and all the wonderful memories. It's just...even when the panic attacks subsided, the anxiousness lessened, my heart pounded furiously every time I walked through the door, looked at the entry hall, recalling things I'd rather forget. There were a few times I crumbled onto the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, with Sherlock, or John rushing to my side. I felt so silly, but yet the fear felt huge and looming.

_“It's not worth it, Molly,”_ Sherlock said softly, picking me up off the floor _. “It's just a house, we can live anywhere.”_

 

            And, so we did. Nan had moved to a small cottage in town, manageable in size, especially since she spent half the year in Scotland with Laura, visiting the rolling hills of sheep country Beatrix Potter revived, gathering wool to spin and weave. Her memories are different, but she wanted to start fresh...a sentiment I shared.

            Sherlock and I decided to buy the home she and Taid once shared. It's our place, together. Not a big move, I realize, but it's perfect for us. After spending several weeks with a land surveyors and the solicitor, my parent's property was divided into manageable acres. With Nan's cottage, we gained a nice home, a small barn, a bit of land and Sherlock's bees. The hardest part was deciding what to keep from my parent's home, but we managed...bringing the whole library with us. It's been a project that's occupied my mind since I returned, and a happy one at that.

            We've moved in, after fresh paint and wallpaper, updates with mechanicals, and a new addition. It wasn't easy managing everything, between London and Sussex, especially since no one (Sherlock) leaves me alone. At least not yet. I remember a conversation I had with Sherlock, a year ago on the autumn equinox....

~*~

_"Molly, your safety --"_

"Is not your concern. This is my life, Sherlock."

_"I could not bear anything happening to you."_

_~*~_

            Little did we know how those words were a crystal ball into our future. _Choose kinder words, indeed_. So, I don't mind that I'm loved and cared for, and that the words Sherlock now speaks to me, also apply to him. He needs to know that I am safe and secure, as I need to know he has peace of mind, able to focus without distraction, and be Sherlock Holmes.

            As for who bought my parents house...that's an interesting story, and one of my favorites. It was purchased by Arthur and Amy Winston, with six boys (two of them twins) – each and every one of them adorned with a thick crop of bright red hair and freckled faces. I was half tempted to ask if they had a daughter named, Ginny, but held my tongue. I tried explaining the Harry Potter world to Sherlock...the lovable Weasley family that lives at the Burrow, Muggles, Hogwarts, _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Name_ , but fairly certain Sherlock disappeared into his mind, someplace uniquely interesting, reappearing after I was done painting the kitchen. It was still perfectly wonderful as he sat in his chair, and I brushed the shelves with thick, creamy white paint - all of it in an easy moment that drifted by on a lazy day.

            Sunday, the 2nd of October, was chosen to celebrated our marriage with family and friends, in our new home, by the seaside, with nature's colors of amber and red set against a cerulean sky. Nan was adamant about blessing our 'nest', walking through each room, as the smoke of sage, dried flowers and herbs whispered against the walls, and water kissed by the new moon sprinkled on doorways. Gifts of stones and crystals were left for the garden faeries, along with drops of Taid's honey mead, and bits of chocolate.

            It was a year ago when I thought everything fell apart, but under the fingernail slice of the moon, the twinkling of lights and stars, I realize that nothing is ever done, but always coming together in ways we never thought possible. The guests have changed since then, when we celebrated an ending, but the love among us remains steady and constant.

            Plates of food and glasses of wine stretched down the long table, where Rosie was surrounded by grandmothers, we laughed, talked over one another, and fed two new dogs under the table. Tara, a red and black German Shepherd pup – that Sherlock insisted on naming, and one naturally occurring scroungy lad we have yet to name. I suggested 'Moriarfy', Mory for short, but after Sherlock got over his stunned silence, he firmly said, ' _Stop making jokes, Molly.'_

The bonfire was blazing, sticks of marshmallows toasted by fire were laid on crackers smothered in melting chocolate, with Phillip Anderson winking in my direction, mouthing _'I knew it.'_ Greg (Lestrade, in case you read this, Sherlock) flirted endlessly with Meena, as Sherlock muttered in my ear _'It'll never work'..._ although I didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't a relationship they were seeking.

            It was delightful to watch William Holmes bounce a laughing Rosie snuggled in his arms, as Margaret watched on adoringly. Mycroft looked absolutely pained as Mrs. Hudson held him captive, chattering endlessly about something or another. Sherlock thought it good for him when I suggested we rescue him from this fate worse than death.

            Everyone here had been through terrible things...things we'd rather not talk about, and I realized I wasn't alone. None of us are alone, even in the darkness, we are all connected on this long and winding road together...what touches one, also touches another in ways we can never predict.

            John clinked a spoon clumsily against his glass, then whistled for everyone's attention. “Right then," he began, bright eyed and happy, clearing his throat and steadying himself with a quick sip of ale. "As someone who should've been Best Man, but wasn't,” he threw a teasingly rueful glare at Sherlock. “I've prepared a speech and chosen these words with care. Oh, but if I get stuck, Marilyn promised to help me out."

            We had no idea what John was about to say, but the fact that he looked to Nan for qualified assistance with a non-best man speech, garnered a few laughs.

            "Sherlock, my best friend and brother - To the things that complete us. Cheers."

            I felt Sherlock's arm tighten around my shoulder, nodding his head to John, an acknowledgment to their secret meaning and the language shared by brothers.

_Melloneamin - Nai eleni Lle an ui aistalë Savo 'lass a lalaith. Aa' menle nauva calen ar' ta hwesta e' ale'quenle. A lothron cín arad menle panna ah meleth._

            Glasses were raised in our honor, as John led the ritual of pouring a small amount of mead on the ground, and into fire, to seal his blessing. I felt light headed, swept away by this pearl of a moment, only to have my emotional resolved cracked when Mycroft pull Sherlock into a brotherly embrace, planted a kiss on his forehead, then said, _"Always, brother mine."_

            I swayed, slowly dancing under the starlight with my husband, my head resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart and understood that was the tempo we moved to. I think he gave me life, on that unassuming day, all those years ago – his irascible behavior, the mischievous twinkle in his velato blue eyes, and I'm so grateful I didn't miss a thing.

            Our guests left to their rooms, hotel, or new homes, while Sherlock and I sat alongside the dying fire - him staring off into the distance at the peaceful statuette watching back upon us.

_“Mary watching over us?”_

“Always.”

_“Do you think John's okay?”_

“I think it's getting easier.”

_“He has Rosie.”_

“Yes, he does.”

_“He has us.”_

“Always.”

_“Bed?”_

“Bed.”

 

            And, so I sit here, on my new window seat, thinking about all the firsts we'll string together, watching my husband sleep peacefully, Tara at his feet, and quietly thanking him for you. I don't know what's next for us, but there is something I do know – I would be desperately lost without him.

Molly xo

*  
*  
*  
*  
*

_P.S. Molly, I looked it up, our new neighbors are definitely Muggles._

P.S.S. Sherlock, this is my diary.

P _.S.S.S. Yes, well, I thought you should know. I love you._

_I love you too. xxx  But this is still Molly's Diary, not Sherlock's._

 

_~ Fini ~_

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's speech in Elvish translates to: "My friends – May your days be forever blessed. Have joy and laughter. May your paths be green and the breeze on your back. And, may your life be filled with love." At least I hope it does. Tolkien's Elvin language presents a very steep learning curve and one never knows how badly I might have messed it up. Apologies to anyone who might speak and write Sindarian. You have my eternal awe.
> 
> I want to THANK YOU, all of you, for willingly taking this journey with me. I have deeply adored (still do!) your comments and insights. Molly nudged me for a bit about an epilogue but, truthfully, it was half hearted as I think she really just wanted to climb in bed, snuggle against her husband and drift off into happy dreams of their future.
> 
> You never know about these two, or what mischief Sherlock and John will find. Should that day come, Molly might have a thing or two to say.
> 
> Blessed Be!


	22. Post Fic - Art, Music, Etc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hat's off to Simplyshelbs16xoxo :)

Hi, Y'all! If you came here thinking I've donned my writer's cap and this was the start of TMD lll, I am truly sorry to disappoint. There is one in the works, but more about that later. This, right here, is a very long, over-due nod to Simplyshelbs16xoxo from Tumblr, who was inspired to create some lovely art work and a music playlist while reading The Molly Diaries l & ll.  Hey, she even turned me on to some new people, who aren't really new, but new to me like Ed Sheeran. I know, I know - how have I been able to survive in this world without knowing who Ed Sheeran is (hanging my head in embarrassment). But, in my defense (shoddy as it is), I'm a jazz and classical enthusiast, have been for decades, so while most people are listening to the greatest latest, my dials have been turned to John Coltrain, Pat Metheny, Keith Jarret, Stanley Clark, Chopin & Mendelssohn, or old school rockers from the 60's and 70's. Mostly.

Anyhoo - I offer my heartfelt thanks to Shelby, for her endearing and lovely tribute to a story I wasn't even sure anyone would read. She is, without a doubt, the kindest of the kind. My sincerest apologies for taking so long to post this!

Big hugs and love to my Tumblr daughter.

xox

~*~

The Molly Diaries playlist according to Simplyshelbs16xoxo can be found at 8tracks radio. You might need to create a free account, if you don't have one already.

<https://8tracks.com/simplyshelbs16xoxo/the-molly-diaries>

 

You can follow the link below to her Molly Diaries page:

<http://simplyshelbs16xoxo.tumblr.com/post/163418147306/hello-sherlollians>

 

Or, just enjoy her creations. :)

 

Simplyshelbs16xoxo aesthetics

Country lanes, Nan & Taid's cottage, angsty moments,

bonfires, and Sherlock's favorite cottage *ahem*

 

The nightstand bouquet made with love by Nan, from Chapter 4, TMD.

 

From Chapter 5, The Molly Diaries:

 

Visualizing the autumn equinox

The ships have come to carry you home.

Visualizing Christmas in East Dean. Brown paper packages, tied up with strings.

TMD Playlist:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Save


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